


1992, 1993

by grey_0_green



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: .....what did you expect, Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Past Sexual Abuse, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, i butcher this trope, i truly apologise, if i fucked up somehow w the logistics, like. a lot of it, please don't judge me i was in my feels, this is. kind of dark, um. this is rlly pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 09:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17619878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey_0_green/pseuds/grey_0_green
Summary: There are flower petals clogging Yut Lung's throat.





	1. summer, 1992

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edielb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edielb/gifts).



> hello i!!!!!! i've done it - the angst-ridden, pining-filled hanahaki au has been delivered,,,, and i'm uh. it's a lil dark and yut lung is rlly not okay for the majority of this fic so if that is a deterrent,, u have been warned. also!!!!! the BIGGEST thank you to edie oh my goodness,,, u have been so lovely thank you SO much for the idea!!! i hope this does it justice ;(( i've been meaning to write this for weeks and i'm so happy i can finally get this out of my fuckign face but yes. please enjoy!!

_june_

It starts in the summer, in June.

The coughing, that is. Yut Lung doesn’t quite know how long the roots have been tangled around his heart.

A cold, he thinks. He hopes. His throat feels raw in a way he only remembers from darkened rooms in cheap hotels, bile rising and stomach churning. He hopes it isn’t some long-dormant disease returned to wreak havoc on his body and mind, a physical reminder of his sins, a physical reminder of what he is.

_Whore._

It isn’t, however. It doesn’t spread. It just stays clogged in his throat, something raw and rough, hacking coughs that wrack his body and leave him curled and trembling on the floor, alone, alone, _alone_.

In the summer, Yut Lung likes to go to the lake some distance away from one of the countless Lee houses that have now been left in his possession. He likes the quiet, here. It feels solid, absolute. Not like in the city, where the rare moments of silence feel so fragile, like it could shatter with an ill-timed blare of a car horn, like it could shatter if you don’t hold onto it tight enough.

He likes to go here in the summer, when he doesn’t want to be found. He likes to sit on the edge of the dock and let his bare feet skim across the cool water, toying with the idea of submerging himself inside the water, breathing out so that the air is slowly crushed from his lungs, sinking and sinking and sinking until the world is blacker than the empty space inside of him.

He doesn’t, ever, because of something hissing against his battered soul, something hissing, _so easy_.

It would be, wouldn’t it? Easy.

Yut Lung has never been one to take the easy way out. He drinks too much to remember which way it is.

He likes to go here in the summer, when he doesn’t want to be found by anyone. Anyone, that is, except for Sing Soo-Ling, because he is perhaps the only one that cares enough to go looking for him.

 _Cares_ , he thinks, is perhaps too restricting of a word, enough to make him hesitate, enough to make him doubt.

Perhaps there’s no care to be found. Perhaps he’s just someone to save. Someone desperate for salvation has found someone desperate to give it.

Isn’t it funny how life works out that way, sometimes?

If only Sing knew just how far past salvation he is.

Sing finds him, again, on a wooden dock on a lake, dipping his toes in the water, creating ripples in the reflection of the moonlight. He sits down next to him, shoes and socks off, and his feet and ankles are fully submerged in the inky water.

“So what was it this time? Wu mouth off at you again?”

He rolls his eyes, feigning exasperation. “Just felt like being alone.”

Sing doesn’t say anything, not even offering to leave, and a part of him warms - Sing understands. Alone means away - not alone entirely. Away from decadently furnished homes, away from tasteless and uninteresting galas he is only reluctantly invited to, away from people trying to clean up after his tear-stained tantrums and wine-soaked carpets.

Away, alone.

“I’m moving in with Eiji,” Sing says, and Yut Lung feels something curl around his heart, something that weaves its way through his valves and clots his blood.

“Congratulations,” he says, because what else is there to say?

Sing glances over at him. “Thanks,” he whispers, and then their fingertips brush, and Yut Lung feels something rise in his throat, thick and heavy. He coughs, body shuddering and limp on the wooden dock, and he feels like he’s choking, choking on something that rubs his throat raw and tangles around his heart.

Sing is there, and he’s thumping his back, but it only makes him cough harder. He feels tears forming in his eyes from the force of it, and he thinks, vaguely, distantly, as he’s gulping in lungfuls of oxygen and his breathing begins to slowly even out, that this doesn’t seem like something that’s going to go away anytime soon.

“Are you okay?” Sing asks, and his voice is soft.

“I don’t know,” he says, which isn’t true, not entirely, because a part of him knows that he isn’t.

He isn’t, at all. He likes to scrub his skin in the shower, scrape the blood off of his skin and wash the guilt away with his lavender-scented soap, but he can’t peel away the sickly, suffocating darkness encircling his heart. It slithers and slides insidiously, and it sends him spiralling somewhere far beyond reach, tempts him with sweet words whose meanings are so sour it makes his tongue twist. He can’t help but lap them up anyway, swallow them like wine and feel them creep in his mind, whispered words and hoarse screams of _worthless worthless worthless whore no one cares no one ever will fucking second rate cheap whore just like your mother filthy slut she deserved what she got do you remember the look in her eyes? do you remember the sounds of her screams and what her blood looked like on the walls and -_

Now he’s broken over a lake and his skin is pale, pale like he’s had the life sucked out of him and not pale like pretty porcelain girls on display in a dimly lit alley. He doesn’t even have the energy to tremble anymore. Sing has his wrists gripped tight, and he’s saying something, and maybe it sounds like he’s concerned, but Yut Lung’s mind is warping everything around him, so maybe it’s warping this, too.

His touch makes his skin burn and it hurts, it hurts so much. His throat feels coarse, like he’s swallowed sandpaper, but he suppresses another bout of coughs, because, because -

Sing is still holding his wrists when his eyes drift shut and he succumbs to nightmares of sickening screams and cold laughter.

 

_july_

Yut Lung isn’t one for beaches.

He doesn’t like the way the sun shines, he doesn’t like the way it makes him sweat - he doesn’t like the stickiness of his clothes and the dampness everywhere, it makes him feel unclean and it makes him feel disgusting.

The wind tangles his hair all too easily, even when he’s got it tightly braided, it always manages to loosen stray strands that flutter in front of his face and stick to his lips. The sand is an absolute hell - it is, quite frankly, somewhat impossible to walk gracefully on sand, and it seems to have made its personal mission in life to invade each crevice and open surface of every unlucky human they happen to come across - and really, isn’t it just manners to stay away from his hair?

Apparently not.

And somehow, Sing has managed to convince him to come along on a group outing, just the three of them - the three of them being him, Sing, and Eiji - to a lovely beach that’s "only a twenty minute drive from the apartment!”

It’s a pebble beach, which is marginally better, but beaches are beaches, so who can blame him if he’s not entirely happy with the situation?

He supposes beaches can’t be all bad, however, because he doesn’t think he’s seen Sing smile like this in a while, all bright happiness and something tender in his grin.

Of course, he’s looking at Eiji. A smile so radiant isn’t meant to be shared with the likes of him.

They’ve found a picnic bench to sit on, some distance away from the water. Sing has long escaped their company to wade in the waves along the shore, and now it’s only him and Eiji, watching Sing get knocked down by waves half his size, only to pop back up with a triumphant grin and a cheery thumbs up.

Yut Lung feels his soul getting a little softer, watching Sing like this, watching him be so carefree, watching him be free of his responsibilities, just for a little bit.

Eiji looks at him, and he averts his gaze. Shame burns his insides, which is strange, because there isn’t anything wrong with looking, is there?

They’re quiet, for a moment, and then Eiji says, “Have you told him?”

He swallows. His breathing begins to shake.

“No.”

When he gathers the courage to look at Eiji, he is only met with wide brown eyes, and they’re full of sorrow, sorrow that paints his irises and twists the patterns inside them, they’re edged with sympathy, and it feels nauseatingly sweet, but laced with endless regret. It sours the softness inside them, it makes the anguish curdle like milk, laid dormant in eyes that haven’t lit up in a long, long time.

“I don’t plan on it. He doesn’t, he doesn’t. He - I don’t have a chance.” He releases it all in a breath, in a rush of air, and everything inside him screams to snatch the words back, to pretend he’d never said anything at all.

Eiji only smiles sadly at him, and Yut Lung can feel the emptiness inside him grow, because this isn’t what he wanted, this isn’t - this isn’t -

“You’ve seen the way he looks at you, haven’t you? You know I’m not wrong.” He says it sharply, accusingly, like it’s somehow his fault, like it’s his fault that Sing looks at him the same way Yut Lung looks at Sing, like he’s longing for something he can never have.

It isn’t, of course. As if he wanted this.

Eiji looks away. “I… I have seen it. But I think that Sing knows I cannot… care for him. I cannot care for him the way he cares for me.” A tear slides down his cheek, lonely and lazy, a desperate drop of hopeless grief, and Yut Lung feels guilt well inside of him.

“Sing means very much to me,” he continues, “But he cannot mean this.”

Yut Lung feels his throat thicken. “I’m - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he mumbles.

Eiji turns to him, then, and his eyes are rimmed with red. He gives him a watery smile, and Yut Lung feels like he wants to choke. “It is okay, Yau-Si. I understand.”

Yut Lung coughs, then, and they’re choking, hacking coughs, he feels like his throat is being torn apart. He’s breathing in lungfuls of oxygen, and he feels Eiji patting his back, but nothing is helping. He’s bent double and his mouth tastes like copper, his vision is swirling and now he’s kneeling in the pebbles.

He coughs and he coughs and he coughs, and just when it’s starting to seem like it won’t ever end, he gasps one last time and his back straightens. He’s dizzy, now, and his vision wobbles, a little, but once it steadies, he looks down at the pebbles.

There are blood spatters painting the stones.

→ ←

In the darkness, Yut Lung opens his eyes. He wakes up in a pool of sweat, and there are sounds of gunshots and knives cutting through flesh ringing in his mind. After a moment, his chest starts to ache, and he breathes in, sharply, except he can’t, there’s something in his throat, and bile in his stomach.

He feels copper in the back of his throat, it’s tearing it into something raw and ragged. He stumbles out of bed and crumples over the toilet, clutching it as his stomach lurches. He retches, and his mouth fills with blood and something that tastes like acid. He heaves, and blood spills across the porcelain and turns the water rose.

There’s something floating in the water.

Yut Lung stands up, head spinning, and flushes the toilet.

He lays in bed, lungs rattling, and falls asleep trying not to think about the fact that his duvet has never felt so cold.

 

_august_

On a scorching summer night in August, he goes back to the lake.

Sing finds him there, as usual, except this time, instead of sitting on the edge the dock, his clothes are sitting in a pile on top of it, and he’s floating in the water.

It’s less than two minutes before Sing has torn off his own clothes (Yut Lung respectfully averts his eyes) and has jumped into the water after him, water splashing everywhere. Yut Lung slaps Sing’s shoulder.

“You ass,” he grumbles.

Sing laughs delightedly, and Yut Lung feels something bubble up inside of him, something desperate and lonely and something that _hurts_ , but he chokes it down like shards of broken glass, because his hopes should never have been indulged at all in the first place.

It’s rather cruel, isn’t it? A wicked world come to collect its penance from a wicked man.

Tempting him with things he can never have, tempting him with tastes of saccharine moments, saccharine moments that don’t taste like syrup, not like empty sweetness, but rich, like dark chocolate, rolling flavors on his tongue, deep and opulent.

It feels like he has his jaw being pried open, has the wonderful richness washed out with bleach, acid that burns, burns, _burns_ and screams in his mind, _do you really think you deserve this? do you really think you deserve him? do you really think you deserve to swallow such a thing?_

He doesn’t deserve any of it, so he swallows the acid with open lips and open tongue. It burns, it burns, it makes his tongue decay and the inside of his mouth deteriorate, but what’s a little scar tissue compared to a torn soul?

He feels something stuck in his throat again.

There isn’t much blood, anymore, he just coughs, he coughs until they come unstuck.

The petals, that is.

He’d found them some days ago, bent over a marble sink, staring at the flecks of blood and thinking that it really shouldn’t be clotting this much - so why are there so many?

When he tries to wash the blood away with water, something remains.

They’re a deep red, and Yut Lung isn’t quite surprised he hadn’t found them earlier, because they’re almost the same color as his blood.

He knows what this means, of course. He’s well versed in the knowledge of plants and their poisons. This one isn’t necessarily always associated with the disease, but he thinks that its meaning is particularly cruel, considering the circumstances.

Amaranths are more commonly known as “love lies bleeding”. Hopeless love.

Hanahaki disease. Its victims being those afflicted with a broken heart and love unrequited.

 _Haven’t I suffered enough?_ he wants to ask, but he knows the answer is no.

So now what he wants to ask is, _How much do I have to take before I’ve finally paid my debt in full? How much do I have to suffer before I can truly repent?_

He looks at Sing, and he’s smiling, but his smile is colored with sadness, imbued with regret. His face is soft, aching, and every part of Yut Lung _hurts_ because there’s no way he will ever deserve this, there’s no way he can ever be enough to melt it all away, melt it all away with the look in his eyes, melt it all away with the touch of his hand.

There’s a cure available, he knows. Quite the catch, however - once removed, the victim retains no memory of their feelings for the other person.

He’d like to say he’ll consider it, or even that he did, for a long while, but he feels shame slither deep in his stomach, because he hadn’t, really - he hadn’t at all, in fact - the decision had been so quick and clear that it had almost saddened him.

It should be terrifying how ready he is to accept his death, he supposes.

Then again, he’d rather die feeling something than live feeling nothing.

→ ←

Watching Sing and Eiji together is strange, he thinks.

Watching them dance around each other is an odd kind of torture - Eiji’s movements are slow, melancholy, colored with hues of hopeless yearning, and Yut Lung can almost hear the desperate melody he dances to, gentle strings plucking and fraught chords strumming, and Yut Lung wonders if Eiji’s skin ever slices on the rose thorns he dances so close to.

Sing’s movements are resigned and heavy, a patient soul made to wait forever, arms swinging at his sides that have long since given up on reaching out. A melody of soft piano keys and pitched tones, sweetness and mourning drizzled over open lips and closed hearts locked with missing keys.

As for him, he watches their smiles laden with ambiguity and buried longing, and feels something that isn’t quite envy coating his skin, turning it a shade close to green but is really more a sickly grey, and he thinks that it might be the feeling of knowing.

He knows what it’s like to dance to songs full of sorrow, he knows what it’s like to sway in the thick honey of his heartache, he knows what it’s like to long for things he is never allowed to have.

After all, he’s the one with flowers in his lungs, isn’t he?

He doesn’t hear any music anymore, however, at least not for him, because he’d realised long before that even the sound of despairing harmonies wasn’t loud enough to drown out the screams in his mind, not even the sound of aching loneliness is enough to staunch the bleeding in his soul.

He doesn’t dance anymore, because there’s no energy in his body anymore, no energy to drown in his anguish, no energy to continue living like this.

No energy continue living like he doesn’t want to, anymore, no energy to continue living with the memory of fingers pressing into his bare skin, no energy to continue living with an ill-fated love, no energy to continue living with flowers in his throat and roots slipping into his veins.

He can only hope the petals don’t take too long to crush the air from his lungs.


	2. autumn 1992, part i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi,, hello. i'm here with the somewhat less prosey continuation!!!!! i was originally gonna make this a lot longer but!! i got lazy n realised i have no obligation to make this longer than it needs to be so. i didn't!! anyway this chapter has got a lot more stuff going on so!! i hope u enjoy!!

_september_

The stares begin in September.

He first notices on a bright afternoon in the middle of a near-empty café - it’s the three of them, sitting around a coffee table. The gentle rumble of the coffee machine and the sound of spoons clinking against mugs is is the only background noise to Yut Lung and Eiji’s quiet conversation, while Sing leans back against the leather cushions on his chair, affecting a bored expression that Yut Lung can’t quite bring himself to take at face value.

There are photos strewn across the table, shining gloss and careful markings, a monochrome of fondness and tenderness and the search for an answer. Yut Lung can feel his heart hang heavy in his chest as he inspects each photograph, as he traces their arching lines and gentle curves, telling him, “They’re lovely,” because they are, they really are, touched with affection and warmth beyond reach, touched with something raw and aching.

He pretends not to notice that a few of the photos are stained with dried teardrops, and that Eiji’s face seems to droop when he sees them, just a little bit, but there’s something in his eyes when he does, something like striking a match, a ghost flickering brightly behind them before fading away faster than he can blink.

Sing hasn’t really contributed much to the conversation, only the occasional nod or hum of approval, and Yut Lung can tell that his mind is elsewhere - and his eyes are on him.

Not Eiji, this time - he’s not looking at him with those mournful eyes, those eyes with torn edges and pools of despair, black ink splashing against his irises. No, he’s looking at _him_ \- and his eyes burn hotter than hell.

He feels hunted, almost, he feels like prey, because these eyes - these eyes hold no trace of loss and misery, these eyes hold no trace of something so unattainable he could weep - no, these eyes hold nothing like that.

These eyes hold fire, and heat. These eyes hold serrated edges, and he feels them snagging on the fabric of his clothes, ripping them apart, exposing his waxen skin, his sharp hip bones, his sunken flesh. These eyes hold flames, licking gently at his outstretched fingertips, turning them into pink, peeling skin, burning his fingerprints away. These eyes hold a promise of something that isn’t quite enough, a promise of sated lust and calloused hands on his bare skin, and he feels the flames licking at his heart, too, singeing the roots wrapped so tightly around it.

His lungs are filled with smoke and the smell of burning petals.

Most of the time, all he does is notice. Notice from the corner of his eyes, a quick glance before he is suffused with heat and an uncomfortable prickling in his skin.

Sometimes, he looks straight at him, and Sing doesn’t avert his gaze, doesn’t flush and look away like he once would have expected. Instead, Sing’s face just softens, lust melting away in place of casual interest, presumably in whatever he has to say in that particular moment.

He’s quite the actor, Sing Soo-Ling - but not one good enough to fool him. If only his gazes weren’t so heavy on his back, if only his eyes didn’t tear holes in his clothes - perhaps it would be easier to miss.

He’s looking at him, again, looking at him with those eyes, and Yut Lung can _feel_ it, he can feel his eyes sweeping over him, lazy glances lingering just a little too long, and then he just -

He pauses in the middle of his sentence, something about how _the contrast in this photo makes it feel really sharp, and yet somehow you’ve managed -_ and turns to Sing, whose face hasn’t quite had enough time to melt into blithe indifference, and says, “Could you please stop staring at me like that?”

He blinks, and suddenly there’s a thin layer of ice cracking above the roaring flames in his eyes, and he flicks a careless gaze up at him, something twinkling in his eyes that hold something like mischief, something like a heady mix of adrenaline and desire.

It sends a thrill down his spine, but he feels something scratching in his throat, tightening roots slicing through the fragile flesh of his heart.

“Huh?” Sing asks, and his throat is bobbing, eyes still glinting, holding a promise, a promise of a challenge, something edging on malice.

Yut Lung raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say anything, Eiji says, “You are… you are looking at him like you would like to eat him.”

Sing blinks, startled, and Yut Lung really can’t blame him, because he’s startled, too, not having expected Eiji to actually have said anything, at least not about this in particular - and he’s not exactly sure how to react, but - he’s grateful for the extra support.

Sing turns his head, pretending to look at one of the women who has just entered the café, (and really, who would believe that?) and says, “You’re imagining things.”

Yut Lung isn’t quite impressed. There’s a delicate flush creeping up his neck, and Yut Lung feels a faint sense of satisfaction seep into his bones.

His eyes are tinged with something miserable, however, and his body seems to sink heavier into the chair, everything sagging, and Yut Lung feels the stems start to crush his windpipe, a tearing, lacerating pain slipping into his bloodstream, but he smiles at Sing anyway, a lascivious twist on his lips.

“Of course,” he says softly, and perhaps he’s imagining things, but perhaps Sing’s eyes flicker at his words.

Just a little.

→ ←

This continues until the end of September.

The staring, the heat, the unasked, unanswered questions.

The burning lust, the flowers in his throat, the roots around his heart. The rush in his veins, the twisting in his stomach, the empty, gaping holes in his heart that scream, _this is all you can have! this is all you’ll ever be able to have!_

He knows.

So that’s why, in the early evening in late September, after Eiji has long gone away and Sing still remains, leaning back nonchalantly in the leather armchair in Yut Lung’s study, Yut Lung finds himself wondering why his skin feels so hot, because it certainly isn’t the glass of red wine in his hand.

He’s staring out of the wide glass windows, watching the sun sink into the horizon, giving way to bright neon lights and blaring billboards, and he feels Sing’s gaze weigh heavy on his back.

He turns around, looking at Sing, and this time the lust on his face doesn’t give way to feigned boredom - no, his eyes still burn with intensity and the angles on his face look particularly sharp in the faint orange glow.

He feels his breath catch in his throat.

“You’re doing it again,” he says, a slight smile curving his lips.

Sing blinks slowly. “Am I?” he asks.

Yut Lung places the glass of wine on the desk next to him, and strides towards him, hips swaying and hair flowing down his shoulders, feeling a thrill run down his spine when he sees that Sing’s pupils are blown wide and his face is starting to flush.

“Yeah. You are,” he says, and stops a few inches away from him, only to collapse onto the chair and splay his body across Sing’s lap. His legs swing over one side, one arm gripping Sing’s neck and the other slipping underneath the t-shirt he wears, fingers sliding across his bare skin. It burns hot, hot, hot, like a stovetop, and Yut Lung pulls himself close to Sing, heated breath caressing the outer shell of his ear. He feels him shudder.

“Let’s stop playing games, Sing,” he whispers, and he splays his fingertips across Sing’s back, feeling the heat of his skin, feeling arousal hum in his veins. He lowers his mouth onto Sing’s neck, his teeth scraping the skin there before biting hard, and Sing makes a startled noise that borders just a little bit on a ragged moan, and Yut Lung licks the skin consolingly while moving his hand up Sing’s back, gentle fingertips dancing across his smooth skin, feeling Sing’s body melt underneath his.

All of a sudden, Sing straightens, grabbing hold of Yut Lung’s wrists in both of his hands. He stands up, pushing Yut Lung off of his lap, and forces him up by pulling on his arms. He moves his wrists into one hand, using the other to grab his hair and push him back against the wall. Yut Lung can feel excitement run through his veins, can feel himself falling into a hazy cloud of desire, and he feels his back hit the wall with a dull thud.

Sing pins his wrists above his head, giving his hair a sharp tug and Yut Lung makes a startled noise, something like _oh_ \- before Sing kisses him, hard and dirty, and their teeth clack together and _fuck,_ that hurts, but he soon forgets the pain when he feels Sing’s tongue entwine with his, hot and wet and slick, and he tastes like a sunlit dream, something out of reach, something forbidden, something sour and syrupy, bittersweet.

He sucks on Sing’s lower lip and bites down on it, hard, and Sing pulls away with a gasp, releasing his wrists and his hair. They’re both breathing heavily, and Sing’s lips are swollen and red and he looks like sin and tastes even sweeter. He feels the petals in his throat rise again, withering and turning black, they taste like a sickly poison, but Yut Lung tries to choke them down again, feeling them scrape his throat and coat his lungs black.

“Is that what you wanted?” Sing asks, and his voice is raspy.

Yut Lung smiles lecherously. “Not quite. Almost. Was that what _you_ wanted?”

Sing doesn’t answer, he just moves towards him, and Yut Lung instinctively steps back, colliding with the wall again.

“What do you want, then?” Sing asks, and Yut Lung smirks.

“I want the same thing you do,” he says, and he feels his heart twist, because he knows that’s a lie.

Sing raises his eyebrows, and Yut Lung places his hands on his chest, fingers trailing down suggestively. “Come on, Sing. We both know this isn’t about love.”

Another lie - it has everything to do with love. How long will it be until he coughs up the petals?

Sing’s face darkens, and Yut Lung curses inwardly. He balls Sing’s shirt in his fists and pulls him towards him. “Don’t think about him,” he says sharply.

Sing’s eyes widen, and Yut Lung covers his mouth with his lips, kissing him softly for just a moment, a gentle caress of stolen sweetness, before he pulls away. “This doesn’t have anything to do with him. It doesn’t mean anything.”

There are all sorts of expressions flickering across Sing’s face, and Yut Lung can’t bear to look at them anymore, so he kisses him again, and it isn’t soft, not like last time, no - this time is _filthy._ This time is sex, and heat, and it’s dirty and wicked and desperate and he can feel their hips grinding together, and his arms are wrapped around his waist, his fingertips pressing bruises into Sing’s golden skin, and they’re pressed so close together, Sing’s hands are winding themselves into Yut Lung’s hair, and everything is hot and wet and _delicious_.

Sing smells like cedar and something spicy, cinnamon and skin, his scent is intoxicating, and Yut Lung thinks he could drown in it. Their bodies rocking together, not a millimeter of space between them, and Yut Lung can feel the euphoria racing through his bloodstream.

When he comes, it’s with a choked cry, and Sing soon silently follows suit with a hard bite on his shoulder. They’re both boneless and panting, limp in each other’s arms and unspoken words still hanging between them.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he says again. He wonders why he even bothers, because he’s not even convincing himself. “It’s just, when we want. For fun.”

“Okay,” Sing says, “Thanks for the orgasm.”

Then he leaves, and then Yut Lung is heaving in an empty room with flowers on the floor.  


_october_

Three days pass before they see each other again.

It isn’t awkward, he’d like to say, and it isn’t, really - no, not really. The conversation still flows easy between the three of them, no silence chokes them - in fact, the quiet sipping from the mugs of tea in their hands in between topics of conversation prevents this from happening at all.

They’re in Sing and Eiji’s apartment, this time, in a neatly-furnished living room that makes his heart twist with how fucking _domestic_ everything is - the blankets strewn over the couches, the two glasses on the coffee table left over from a gentle conversation he hadn’t been a part of, and the faint smell of cinnamon permeating the air, a result of the cinnamon spice scented candle in the corner of the room.

It isn’t awkward.

But there’s certainly something - something in the air that makes it just a little bit harder to breathe, something in the air that makes him stumble and stutter and choke on his words, something that’s making his chest feel tight, tight, _tight,_ and maybe it has something to do with the fact that Sing hasn’t made eye contact with him a single time since he’s arrived.

When Eiji gets up to use the bathroom, placing his mug on the coffee table, Yut Lung trains his eyes on Sing.

“What is it?” he asks sharply, and a part of him thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have asked, because he doesn’t even really want to know the answer.

Sing looks away, guilt flooding his features, and Yut Lung feels the emptiness inside him grow just a little bit wider.

“Listen, I… the other night was a mistake. I don’t, I don’t think it’s a good idea to do that again. I’m, I’m sorry.” Sing looks down, his lashes fluttering, and Yut Lung feels a tightening in his heart, something that compresses it inside his ribcage, twists and squeezes so it won’t expand enough to fill the space, twists and squeezes so it’s torn and bruised, beating next to lungs filled with petals and a cracked ribcage.

He starts to feel the stirrings of anger inside him, because _damn him_ , he knows exactly what’s happened, he knows exactly why he’s saying this, and is it really too much for him to have one thing of his own? Just a taste, a desperate grasp at something far beyond reach, an iron grip on the least he can have?

“Why?” he asks, and Sing turns his head towards him, startled, before pausing.

“Because, well. We’re friends.”

 _Are we? Are we friends, Sing?_ It doesn’t even hurt to hear him say that. It doesn’t hurt to hear him placed at such a level, placed at a level in which he cares but not quite enough, placed at a level in which he seeks company and nothing more, placed at a level in which no one matters enough.

No, it doesn’t hurt at all, because he knows it isn’t true - they were never friends. For him, at least, there has always been something more - undercurrents of anger and envy and hopelessness, gentle waves of tenderness, longing, desperation.

“Are we?” He cocks his head, questioning.

Sing nods, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. And, uh. I don’t wanna fuck that up.”

Yut Lung feels something in his throat. His skin prickles.

“Did you tell Eiji about it? Is that what you did?” His words are sharp, accusing, arrows poised at his quivering bow, released with perfect precision and slicing through worn skin.

His silence is answer enough.

“Why did you do that? Feeling guilty, were you? Is that it?” Yut Lung feels the anger spark in his veins, a roaring, blazing fire leaping in his insides and leaving welts on his skin.

Sing whips his head towards him, and there’s fear in his eyes, consternation and shame.

“That’s - that’s not it, I just - ”

“Shut up. You know just as well as I do that that’s exactly what it is. What, did you feel like you _cheated?_ Give me a fucking break.” There’s anger in his eyes and anger in his voice, and he knows he’s being callous and careless but the fire inside him won’t let him stop, it won’t let him stop until he’s torn Sing to shreds, it won’t let him stop until Sing is tattered and frayed on the living room floor, a piteous mix of tears and regret.

Sing is trembling now, his fists clenched and his cheeks flushed. “Fuck you.”

He laughs coldly, and it’s a cruel sound that pierces the air, devoid of sympathy, devoid of warmth.

“Get over yourself. It didn’t mean a fucking thing. I told you this didn’t have anything to do with love and I fucking meant it. What’s your plan, Sing? Save your innocence for the day he finally wants you? Become celibate for his sake? You’ll die waiting, Sing. He’ll never want you like that.” He feels his phantom self gripping a needle, slipping it into Sing’s skin, slipping an insidious poison into his bloodstream.

Sing squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body wracked with shudders. “Shut the fuck up. Get the fuck out.”

He smiles, and it holds only malice. “This is a fucking joke. Suit yourself. Neither of you wanted me here, anyway.” He stalks out of the room and slams the front door on his way out.

His lungs are aching and burning and bleeding and he can’t hold it in for much longer. Everything hurts and nothing matters, just his battered insides and his bruised heart. He stumbles down the stairs, desperate for relief. When he gets past the third flight, clutching the railing, he hears the door open, and he hears Eiji’s voice calling, “Yau-Si!”

He feels dread harden in his veins, blood clots clogging his heart. He isn’t in the mood to deal with Eiji right now, because he knows he knows his words are aimed to kill and Eiji has just become his new target.

“Yau-Si! Please, wait!”

He stops and looks up at Eiji, who is flying down the stairs, breathless, and waits for him as he slows at the landing.

“Yau-Si,” he pants, gripping the railing.

Yut Lung eyes him, a fire racing beneath his skin. “What is it?” he asks coldly.

“Please, Yau-Si. Please let me explain,” he begs, eyes wide and pleading.

“Why?” he snaps, and Eiji flinches.

He’s finding it just a little bit hard to breathe.

“I - I do not want you to be angry at Sing. It is okay if you are angry at me - I understand, Yau-Si,” he says, and his eyes are so full of compassion and heartfelt sympathy that it makes him ache. “But please, do not be angry with Sing.”

“This is between me and him. There’s no need for you to get involved, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. I’m angry with him and there’s really nothing you can do to change that.” He keeps his tone icy, detached - holding him at arm’s length might stop the flames from burning him, too.

“Yau-Si, please. You are going to hurt him. You are hurting yourself.” His eyes are brimming with sorrow, contrition and despair that implore him to _please, stop doing this to this yourselves_.

“Why does it matter? This isn’t any of your business,” he hisses.

Eiji’s eyes flash. “But it _is_ my business! I do not want you to hurt Sing, Yau-Si!”

Yut Lung feels flowers rising in his throat and his blood freeze in his veins. “Oh, I see. So you’re the only one allowed to do that, right?”

Eiji rears back like he’s been slapped. His face melts into a pool of hurt and anguished betrayal, and Yut Lung feels guilt rise in his throat along with the flowers, something bitter that sticks in his throat, and he wants to choke.

He’s silent, however, despite how desperately he wishes he could take the words back, and Eiji just stares at him, breathing hard. When he speaks again, his voice trembles, like trees in a thunderstorm. “That… that is not fair, Yau-Si. I do not…” He squeezes his eyes shut, and Yut Lung feels his throat clogging.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, and Eiji’s words fade away, lost in the air, tangled amongst feelings he can’t quite figure out how to unravel. He isn’t finished, however, and Yut Lung is caught off guard when he finds his ground again.

“You are playing with your hearts, Yau-Si! It is hurting both of you! This is not a good idea! I… I am only telling him what I think is right,” he mumbles, but his words had been strong and sure, and Yut Lung feels something spark inside of him.

“I’m not in charge of him, Eiji. His heart is his own and he can damn well decide what he wants to do with it. If he wants to fuck me, then so be it. And as for mine? Well, I could hardly call it a heart, anymore, so why bother worrying about whether I’ll hurt it?” He laughs, then, and it’s cold, again - empty. He’s choking.

Eiji’s eyes look like stars winking out.

“Yau-Si - ” he starts, but before he can continue, Yut Lung heaves, shuddering coughs running through him. His tongue tastes like petals and he can feel its acrid perfume coating his mouth, tinged with the metal tang of blood, and his head is spinning and, oh, when did he get so close to the floor?

When his head stops spinning, he faintly registers that Eiji is kneeling down next to him, his hand on his back and his eyes glued to the floor. When he follows his gaze, he sees that there are crimson petals scattered around him.

“Yau-Si,” Eiji says again, but this time is different, this time he sounds horrified, and Yut Lung feels something chilling settle into his bones.

He stands up, pulling Eiji with him, and he turns to look at him. Eiji’s face is swirling, shifting, like he doesn’t quite know how to react.

“Don’t - Eiji, please. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell him. Please,” he begs, and he hates how desperate he sounds, but what choice does he have?

Eiji swallows, wide-eyed, and nods, barely breathing.

“Don’t come after me,” Yut Lung says.

When he leaves, Eiji doesn’t follow.


	3. autumn 1992, part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h. hello i'm so sorry this chapter took fucking FOREVER i've been so!! so busy n also just haven't rlly had the energy to write lately but!! here it is ;; i'm sorry it's literally the Worst but . this is what i have to offer i'm so sorry
> 
> ALSO!!!! i'm the biggest piece of shit in the WORLD because i totally forgot to mention last chapter that the lovely, lovely [butleronduty](https://twitter.com/butleronduty) made some ABSOLUTELY gorgeous art based on this fic!!!!!!!! please check it out [here](https://twitter.com/butleronduty/status/1093323765696450560) and give her some love!!!!

There’s nothing but radio silence for the next week.

He doesn’t visit, because surely, he wouldn’t be welcome there, and he hasn’t received any requests to. It’s a miserable week that seems to drag on forever, clutching him by his onyx hair and drawing him across uneven concrete, jagged edges not quite smoothed down catching on his skin and ripping it apart, and his head feels bloody and bruised by the time it’s over.

A silent, miserable week.

The silence is broken by a soft knock on his apartment door, and Yut Lung isn’t sure who it is, at first, not having ordered anything that would need to be delivered but also not really allowing himself to hope that it could possibly be anyone he wants to see.

He pads over to the door and slowly pulls it open, peeking his head through the cracks to find a pink-cheeked, somewhat abashed-looking Eiji holding a plastic bag in one hand and scrubbing at the back of his neck with the other.

When he looks up, he smiles sheepishly at Yut Lung, and he feels something inside of him crack, split him wide open and show him his crumbling bones and the flowers in his lungs, because there’s nothing he did to deserve an apology and yet here is Eiji, who looks like he’s about to offer one, and he thinks he might collapse at the sudden chill of cold air on his bones.

He opens the door wider. “Hey,” he says softly. His voice trembles, a little, but it goes unnoticed, or at least unremarked upon.

“Hello, Yau-Si.” Eiji’s voice is gentle, full of an apology that he’s not quite sure is warranted, at least not from Eiji. His eyes are soft and apologetic, and it tears at the wreckage of his lungs and beating heart, sharpens the black guilt that pulses inside him. “I… I have made you some soup,” he says a little uncertainly, holding up the plastic bag, and the guilt softens into something like tenderness.

“Thank you,” he says, and takes the bag before stepping back to invite him inside. His apartment is small but comfortably furnished, and he prefers it to the empty halls of the Lee mansion, in which every corner and threshold radiated wealth and cruelty. Every loveseat, every polished wooden table was permeated with a strange poison, something that twisted his mind and crept on his sanity and he hadn’t even noticed until it was far, far too late.

He walks over to the refrigerator, turning around to ask quickly, “Did you want to eat this now? I can get some bowls for us.”

Eiji smiles warmly. “You can eat it later. I am not hungry, right now.”

He nods and puts the bag into the refrigerator, shutting the door as he says, “I’ll just make some tea, then. Would you like a cup?” Eiji nods, and he fills the kettle with water, flicking the switch as he walks over to the living room.

For a moment, the only noise is the sound of the water boiling, and Yut Lung begins to twirl with his hair as he feels the discomfort settle around them, wanting to break the silence but not being entirely sure as to how.

“Eiji, I - ” he begins in a rush, knowing exactly where he’s going but faltering, suddenly unsure.

Eiji looks up at him, and his eyes are still soft and Yut Lung’s soul still hurts. “It is okay, Yau-Si. You do not have to apologise to me.”

“No,” he says, because he’s wrong, he does, there are a lot of things he needs to apologise to him for. “I’m - I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said to you. I know…” He pauses, then, taking in a shuddering breath, “I know it isn’t your fault. I was just - I was angry. I’m sorry.”

Eiji’s smile wobbles, a little, and he says, “I know. It is okay, Yau-Si. I forgive you.”

Yut Lung almost collapses, a flood of relief rushing in. He stands up, then, because the sharp whistle of the kettle is starting to pierce through their quiet conversation, and takes the kettle off the heat. He grabs two mugs from his cabinet and pours the water in, straining the tea and watching its sepia tendrils curl in the water and tingeing it a clear caramel. It’s black tea, so he adds a splash of milk and a spoonfull of sugar to Eiji’s, leaving his own mug untouched.

When he walks back into the living room, Eiji is sitting quietly with his hands folded over his lap, but his eyes twinkle a bit when he walks in and passes him his mug.

“Thank you,” he says, and Yut Lung forces himself to smile in response.

The quiet between them is warm, but thick and gelatinous, like pudding left out in the sun. He sips quietly from his mug, wincing at the bitter taste but enjoying its slow slide down his throat, and he feels the heat of the tea pool in his stomach.

“Yau-Si - how have you been?” Eiji asks, and Yut Lung feels the warmth in his stomach seep into his skin, as well.

“It’s only been a week,” he smiles, but it’s just a little bit forced - it’s hard to contain the edge of bitterness in his tone.

“A week is a long time for someone to be alone,” Eiji says.

“Yeah,” he says, because it is, and maybe he hadn’t realised just how alone he was until this week. “I’m fine. Better, now.” He looks up at Eiji, and when he smiles this time, it’s genuine, something affectionate in his smile.

Eiji nods, smiling a little into his mug.

“How - how is Sing?” he ventures, and is rewarded with a soft huff of laughter from Eiji.

“I thought you are angry at him.”

“I am,” he grumbles, but the warmth inside of him is curling, curling. “That doesn’t stop me from caring.”

Eiji’s eyes go from gentle and teasing to doleful and sympathetic in the span of a second. “Oh, Yau-Si. He is… he is okay. Lonely, a little bit. I think… I think he is missing you.”

Yut Lung laughs dryly.

“He is, Yau-Si,” Eiji insists. “I know you do not believe me, but I think that Sing cares for you more than you think he cares for you.” His voice is almost frighteningly genuine, and the look in his eyes is just a little bit too much for him to handle.

“Yeah, okay. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m still angry at him.”

“I know.” Eiji sips from his tea.

He blinks, then, almost startled, and says, “Yau-Si… what are you planning to do?”

The question _about what?_ is on the tip of his tongue, and then he feels the flowers swirling in his lungs, and realises he doesn’t really need to ask.

“Nothing,” he says coldly.

“Yau-Si, please. You do not have to tell him. You can fix it. I will help you, Yau-Si. Please. I do not want to lose you,” he begs, and his eyes are dewy and full of loss.

“I don’t want to fix it,” he says, and Eiji’s face crumples.

“Yau-Si… please. I cannot… I cannot lose you, too,” he says, and his voice is thick and Yut Lung can’t bear to look at his face.

He says nothing for a long moment, because Eiji’s desperation strikes a chord in his heart and the vibrations are just a little bit unsettling.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally says, because he can’t bring himself to say no to him, but he can’t quite bring himself to say yes, either.

Eiji nods, then, and he’s so relieved, because he doesn’t think he has the strength to argue with him anymore.

 _I’ll think about it,_ he’d said.

He won’t.

→ ←

He doesn’t wait for Sing to come to him.

No, he doesn’t wait. He gathers the shattered pieces of his dignity in his arms and deposits them at Sing and Eiji’s front door, they slip through his fingers and spill onto the stairs, but he assembles what little courage he has left inside him and raises his fist to knock on the door.

Before he can knock, however, the door opens and Eiji walks out, slinging an empty bag over his shoulder and pulling on the sleeves of his windbreaker. Eiji looks up, startled.

“Yau-Si! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I… I was just here to talk to Sing.” His smile is a little strange as he rushes to distract him, “Are you going somewhere?”

He watches as Eiji’s eyebrows knit slightly in concern, and then loosen a bit as he registers the question he’s been asked. “I am going to the grocery store. Yau-Si, what are you going to say to him?”

Yut Lung feels his chest tighten as he replies, “I just came to apologise. I won’t stay for long.”

It’s not a lie, not entirely. In fact, it’s hardly a lie at all, because he did come to apologise, and he truly doesn’t plan to stay for long - it’s not as if Sing would want him to, anyway - but he thinks that maybe part of the reason is that he’s just desperate to see him again.

But Eiji’s eyes soften anyway, the creases in his eyebrows unfolding as he smiles a little at Yut Lung. “Okay. I will go now. Be gentle with him, Yau-Si.”

He brushes past him on his way out, and there’s a part of him that feels a little cold as he walks into the apartment, slipping his shoes off and tugging the sleeves of his woolen sweaters around his hands.

Cautiously, he pads into the living room, where Sing is standing with his back towards him, staring outside the window at the New York skyline. He’s staring at the clouds hanging heavy in the sky, dark and menacing and threatening to open up and wash the city with rain, and for a moment Yut Lung remembers Eiji and his windbreaker and wonders if he’d brought an umbrella.

He sits down on their sofa without saying a word, back straight and hands folded in his lap, and tension pulls his body taut.

There’s a moment of silence between them, and it feels rather like the clouds in the sky, full and dark and ready to spill with something that might wash them clean, but also just might leave them drenched in blackened water that drips down their throats and pools in their stomachs.

Sing turns around, and his face is empty, his eyes are blank.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, an echo of Eiji’s words, but with none of his casual surprise and frosted with ice.

“I…” he begins, and but his tongue becomes limp in his mouth and the words “I’m sorry,” wither in his throat, sliding into his lungs and getting lost amongst the tangle of roots and wilted petals.

Sing sits down next to him on the sofa, leaning back and slinging his arm over the back of the chair nonchalantly, but when he looks at Yut Lung he looks unimpressed. He’s close, but not quite enough, not quite enough to feel the heat beneath his skin but just enough for Yut Lung to be able to feel the roots tighten around his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, because he can’t stand the disappointment he feels radiating from Sing.

Sing raises an eyebrow. “Sorry for what?”

Yut Lung feels his breath catch in his throat and then he wonders, _what am I sorry for?_

His gaze suddenly turns just a touch coquettish as he says, “You tell me.”

Sing’s lips part, just a fraction, and Yut Lung feels his heart stutter in his chest, thrash against the roots binding his heart, feels his lungs compressing and the petals getting crushed.

Sing leans towards him, and it’s all he can think to do to close his eyes before Sing’s lips cover his and all he feels is warm - it’s something chaste and soft but not quite sweet. There isn’t a hint of seduction in the kiss but Yut Lung finds himself melting into it anyway, desperate to hold onto the tendrils of gentleness wrapping around his mind, inserting themselves into the cracks and leaving him feeling unbearably empty.

When Sing pulls away, he finds himself instinctively leaning forward, not yet ready to let go of the not-quite kiss, and when he realises, his eyes snap open and he pulls back, breath still caught somewhere between his throat and his heart.

“Sorry for that?” Sing asks, and there’s a hint of teasing to his tone, but his words bite anyway, and Yut Lung doesn’t like the stinging on his skin.

“Do you think I should be sorry for that?”

Sing pauses. His throat bobs. “No.”

Yut Lung leans in close, close so that his lips are a hair’s breadth away from the shell of his ear, and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Then kiss me again, like you mean it.”

Sing turns his head swiftly and cups Yut Lung’s face in his hands and kisses him deep, so quickly that Yut Lung is beginning to wonder if he’ll ever get back the breath trapped in his throat. It’s okay, though, because he _is_ , he’s kissing him like he means it, and it feels like autumn wind in his hair, autumn wind and swirling leaves on pavement, autumn wind through swaying, yellowing grass, autumn wind biting the skin of his exposed fingertips.

Sing tastes like the gentle chill of autumn, but he also tastes like heat, and Yut Lung wants to reach inside his chest and take it all so he doesn’t feel so empty anymore, hold it in his hands and keep it close to his heart so it doesn’t feel quite so cold.

He swings his legs around and straddles Sing’s waist, still kissing him, and his hands are on his chest and around his neck and everywhere, he feels Sing’s hands slip beneath his sweater and he feels his hands at the skin of his sharp hipbones. They’re strong and calloused, but they send electricity humming through his skin, and it would be so easy to drown in the feeling of his hands on his hips, drown in the feeling of being wanted, but he pulls back, dropping his head on Sing’s shoulder and breathing hard.

“What’s wrong?” Sing asks, and his voice is hoarse.

“Are… are you sure you want this?” he asks, and his voice trembles, a withered leaf in the autumn wind.

Sing doesn’t reply, he just taking his hands off of his hips and tangles his hands in Yut Lung’s hair. He tugs his head off his shoulder and cups his cheeks again, he kisses his the hollows beneath his cheekbones, his forehead, his nose, and the corner of his mouth - they’re tender, delicate kisses, and for a moment Yut Lung forgets that this is Sing Soo-Ling and that he is Lee Yut Lung, he forgets who they are and what he means to Sing, because all he can focus on is the feeling singing in his veins.

He holds Sing so close, holds him close as his breathing becomes ragged, and when Sing finds his lips again he grinds his hips, low and dirty, and he feels Sing groan. Their hips move in tandem, and when Yut Lung reaches down to grip Sing’s cock, he feels Sing’s fingers wind into his hair and pull. Their bodies move against each other, and Yut Lung strokes hard as Sing thrusts into his hand, and soon the room is filled with the sound of skin on skin and unsteady breathing.

Sing’s breathing becomes shallower, and just as he says, “Yue, I - ” Yut Lung hears the door click and swing open, and Sing freezes, fingers digging into his hips.

Yut Lung, however, heart in his throat, leans in again and whispers, “Don’t. Stop.”

His tone is dangerous, menacing. He strokes once, twice, and Sing is coming into his hand, covering his mouth and muffling a groan, body melting into the sofa. Yut Lung is already standing up, tugging his sweater back down and patting his hair in place.

He walks out into the hall, where Eiji is standing with two bags of groceries, and when Eiji looks at him, there is only exasperation lining his face.

Yut Lung laughs and swaggers out of the apartment.

  
_november_

November is Sing.

November is Sing, November is Sing and the way he looks at Yut Lung, the way he looks at him like an enchanting mirage, an oasis of honeyed water that Sing swallows, he swallows and feels it coat his tongue, his skin, a sticky residue with Yut Lung’s lavender scent.

November is the way he touches him, sometimes cruelly, where calloused hands press bruises into his skin, where he bites down on his lips just a little too hard and the unsavory tang of blood fills their mouths but he swallows it down, swallows it down. Cruelly, where Sing fists his hands in his hair and slams him against a wall and his head knocks against it and perhaps he starts to feel just a little bit dizzy, where he’s pinned to the bed with his wrists caught in Sing’s relentless grip, where Sing slams his hips against his and all he can do is feel the flowers rise in his throat and choke on their sickly flavor.

It’s okay, though, because Sing muffles the pain with cotton balls of apologies and tender words, sincerity painting the phrases that spill from his mouth, but not quite painting it dark enough for the touches to become any less cruel.

It’s okay, he thinks, but it really isn’t.

November is the way he touches him, sometimes gently, always falsely, but Yut Lung likes to pretend the softness is genuine. Gently, where he caresses his skin with reverent hands, where he whispers warm words like, _so beautiful,_ and, _please let me kiss you,_ and then he does, and his lips are pliant and eager beneath his, hands rubbing circles on his porcelain skin. Gently, where their breaths mingle together and slow dance in the balmy air, their fingers intertwining and bodies undulating.

His delicate touches make his stomach churn more than the cruel ones, they make him hold the petals on his tongue and when he bites down he feels bile rising in his throat. Every time he leaves, once he hears the door swing shut and hears Sing’s footsteps on the pavement, he slumps over the toilet bowl and heaves, heaves until his stomach is empty and the water is stained pink and is filled with flower petals, heaves until his heart has been crushed by the roots wrapping so tightly around it.

Gently, and it hurts. It splits his soul in two and he feels his tears spill into his heart, swelling and bloated and stretching the skin and popping the veins. He’d shoved his heart inside Sing’s chest because he couldn’t bear to take care of it anymore, and Sing had cracked it open and the tears had poured onto the concrete beneath their feet.

 _Eiji,_ Sing had whispered once, twice, three times, when he touched him like he was worth something, when he touched him like he was stained glass and not a thing to be broken, and he had shattered, choking as he felt the petals swirl in his lungs, and when Sing had left in the morning, the pillow had still been damp with his tears.

He cries a lot, in November, so much so that he finds himself unable to fall asleep without the bitter soak of saline tears on his face.

November is hurt and tears, lust and love unrequited.

November is bitter, bittersweet.


	4. winter, 1992 - 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouch i,,,, listen i,,, i am so sorry. boy oh boy i really didn't know what the fuck i was talking about last update when i said three weeks was a really long time did i skdjskd i am. so sorry this took a literal fucking millennium to get out i don't really have much excuse except for the fact i was busy w a oneshot,, that i posted over three weeks ago,, i am so sorry like it's literally not even good it's actual trash but i guess this is where life has taken me pls enjoy :~)
> 
> also just a quick note ! i'm really really not sure when this is going to update - it's probably gonna be at least another month and i'm really really sorry about that but i really just wanted to get another chapter for this out there before i get started on my rbb piece. but!! i hope y'all are patient enough to wait ;( i definitely plan on continuing this so!! don't give up yet!!

_december_

 

December comes with biting cold and frost on Yut Lung’s windows, and December comes as Sing leaves.

He pulls away from him while they’re standing in the hall of Sing and Eiji’s apartment. The skin of his neck is still caught in Yut Lung’s teeth, and he lets out a soft noise as his skin stretches between them for a fraction of a second, and then Yut Lung watches with creased brows as it blends back into his neck, bite marks tinted rose already beginning to darken.

Sing’s skin looks slightly sickly, his eyes not quite able to focus, and Yut Lung can feel the petals darkening in his lungs.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asks, and he wishes he could stop the worry from seeping into his tone.

Sing blinks, startled. “I just,” he says, and then pauses to take a breath. “I just don’t think this is a good idea anymore. I don’t even know if it was a good idea to begin with.”

The petals twist and he can feel the roots crushing his windpipe.

“Why?” he asks, and the word is painted bitter, cracking over the panic and desperation glowing beneath it.

Sing’s features cloud over, eyes not quite misty but lips a little bit dewy. “I, well. It’s not…”

Yut Lung cuts him off with a sharp laugh, and he hates the feeling wrapping around his heart, the pins poking holes and spite pouring out of them.

“Let me make this easier for both of us, shall I? I’ll make your excuses for you, do the whole little monologue you planned.” His voice takes on a strange, sing-song lilt. “It’s not you, it’s _me_. I just need some _space_ , you know? I don’t think this is _healthy_ , because Eiji _said_ so, and I’m in _love_ with him. I just don’t wanna _use_ you, you know? I am just so, so fucking _sorry_.” He crowds against Sing with every word that spills out of his mouth.

Sing’s face seems to waver, staggering on the edge of something terrifying, and he’s quiet for a moment before he says, “I don’t sound like that.”

Yut Lung lets out a huff of laughter. “I think you missed the point.”

“I’m not in love with Eiji,” Sing says quietly.

He scoffs, and the sound cuts through the air between them. “Give me a fucking break, Sing. We both know this is all about him. I don’t matter at all, do I? But then again, when have I ever?” His face is starting to flush, and his eyes are beginning to burn, something hot prickling beneath his eyelids.

“It isn’t just about him,” Sing says, and Yut Lung smiles a little brokenly as he feels his tears spill from the corner of his eyes. “It’s, it’s not fair on either of us. Please, please don’t cry. The whole point of me doing this is so you don’t get hurt anymore,” he pleads.

“Fuck you, Sing,” Yut Lung spits, tears still trickling down his face. “I asked for this. I knew it would be like this and I wanted it anyway - why do I have to have this taken away from me?”

“I’m sorry,” Sing says, and his voice is thick, like cement mixing in his throat.

“Prove it,” Yut Lung says, and he’s desperate, so desperate, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Sing can tell, too, but he thinks his pride had taken its leave as soon as the flowers took root. “Prove you’re not in love with him. Don’t leave. Please.”

“No,” Sing says, and the petals in his lungs turn to smoke, the tears on his face turn to fire, and it’s burning the skin on his face and making his throat turn to charcoal.

Yut Lung inhales and steps away from him. “Go, then.”

“I - listen, we’re gonna see each other again. Just, just not like this, okay? Don’t make this seem like a goodbye.”

“Isn’t it?” Yut Lung asks, and Sing droops.

“I don’t want it to be,” he says quietly, and the roots tangle in his veins, tears pooling again.

But it is, and his tears drip onto the tiles as Sing slips out of the front door.

→ ←

Yut Lung meets Eiji two days later.

He plans it strategically - he knows Sing is always at work this time of day, and Eiji is usually alone in their apartment.

He doesn’t think he’s quite up to seeing Sing just yet. He’s not avoiding him, he wouldn’t say, not entirely, he’s simply not putting himself in situations where they’ll be near each other.

Maybe he is avoiding him. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

He knocks quietly, and within moments, he hears Eiji’s soft footsteps coming closer, and when the door swings open, he’s faced with the Eiji, clad in pyjama pants and a bathrobe. His face is lined with something a little melancholy, but it usually is, nowadays, his eyes singing something a little soft and a little sad - and suddenly, Yut Lung doesn’t quite have the energy to be angry, anymore.

“Hi, Yau-Si. Do you want to come inside?” Eiji asks, and his voice is just as soft as his eyes.

Yut Lung smiles a little and steps inside, slipping his coat off and hanging it. “Thanks.”

“I will go make some tea for us,” Eiji says, and disappears into the kitchen.

Yut Lung sinks into the loveseat in their living room, staring out of the wide window. He can almost see Sing’s silhouette staring at the dull cement and garish billboards of the city below, swirling a crystal glass full of amber liquid with his right hand and running a hand through his gelled hair with his left.

He doesn’t like to think about Sing.

It hurts, he thinks, and that isn’t anything new, it never was, but it hurts a little differently, this time. It hurt before to think about Sing, but it never hurt like this.

He misses when thinking about Sing was like a sweet ache in his lungs, he misses when thinking about Sing felt like pressing pause, slowing down a moment and feeling it spark on his skin for just a little bit longer. He misses when thinking about Sing felt like writing poems and watching his smile flicker across a blank page. He misses the strange, desperate saccharine twist of feeling his mind cloud with images of bruises and Sing’s lips skating across his skin.

He misses when thinking about Sing didn’t feel like it does now.

It hurts differently, now, the ache isn’t quite so sweet. The ache tastes like aged floral perfume, the ache tastes like burnt charcoal and the grimy residue of self-loathing coating his mouth, the ache tastes like bile and he wishes he could cough it up along with the scarlet petals that pour out of his throat and off of his tongue, but he can’t, he can’t, it’s trapped in his chest in a tangle of vines and he wants to rip it open and tear it apart, but he can’t, he _can’t_.

The ache feels like his nerves are lit on fire, but the burn isn’t quite so pleasant, and everything feels like fire and his muscles are tinged with black, his mind is fading to midnight. His fingertips are turning purple, and Sing’s silhouette is fading away.

Eiji returns as Sing’s silhouette blends into the glass, and hands him a mug of tea. He wraps his fingers around the ceramic and takes a sip.

“It’s sweet,” he says, and Eiji looks up from his mug.

“It is fruit tea. It is too bitter without honey.”

“I don’t like my tea with honey,” Yut Lung says quietly.

“I am not making you a new one. Drink it or nothing,” Eiji says, eyes narrowed.

“Bitch,” Yut Lung says, but sips the tea again, anyway.

They drink their tea for a while in silence, and when Eiji finally breaks the silence, Yut Lung is just a little bit startled at his words. “Yau Si, did something happen with you and Sing?”

“I thought you knew already,” he says, and he wishes he didn’t sound so accusatory, but he can feel the bitterness soak in his blood.

“I do not know anything. I only know Sing is acting very strangely. I also know he does not come home late anymore.”

Yut Lung feels his throat thicken. “I thought… I thought _you_ might have said something to him.”

Eiji smiles a little. “Is this why you came today?”

Yut Lung averts his gaze, feeling shame rise rosy in his cheeks. “Maybe I just wanted to come visit.”

Eiji snickers. “Maybe you are just wanting to come accuse me of being… ah, what is it called? Home destroyer?”

He snorts. “Homewrecker.”

“Yes, homewrecker!” Eiji looks almost giddy, and Yut Lung pouts.

“I just wanted to know if you had anything to do with it.”

Eiji’s face sobers, and he feels guilt prickle at his skin. “I did not say anything to him, Yau Si, I promise.”

“I trust you,” Yut Lung says, and he means it. “Has he… has he said anything to you?”

Eiji shakes his head. “He has not said anything.” He hesitates, just for a second. “Is it okay for me to ask what happened?”

“He just… I don’t, I don’t know what happened. One day we were just, just.” He coughs quickly. “Just, just there, and then he said he didn’t think it was working anymore, and then I, I asked him why, and he didn’t really give me a good answer and then we kind of fought and then I, and then he was gone.” The words spill out of his mouth, a mess of black ink and petals on canvas, not quite beautiful but a little cathartic.

“Hm. I… I do not think I understand any better than you do. Sing feels… Sing feels very many things, I think. He feels very easily, and he feels very strongly. He does not like to talk about the things he is feeling, and I think that this is making him feel even more.”

It makes Yut Lung feel, too. It makes him hurt, it makes him ache, it makes him despair and it makes him love, it makes him love, love, love, and he thinks that’s the worst part of it all.

Because he knows that no matter how much Sing feels, he’ll never feel as much as Yut Lung does.

He’ll never feel love, at least.

“I feel, too,” Yut Lung whispers, and Eiji’s face melts into something so crestfallen Yut Lung’s heart squeezes hard in his chest.

“I know, Yau Si. But please, do not underestimate how much Sing cares for you. He has been missing you, again. He is very quiet - I have not heard him speak any more than two or three words since two days ago. He never comes home late, anymore, but I have barely seen him at all.” Eiji’s voice is soft again, imploring, and Yut Lung feels his lungs splitting, he doesn’t know what to think and he doesn’t know what he _can_ think.

“I am missing you, too, Yau Si. I have barely seen you at all.”

Guilt sets his skin on fire and makes his lungs combust, he’s missed him, too, but he’s been too wrapped up in Sing and pain and desire to see Eiji as much as he’s wanted to, and now regret swirls with the petals in his lungs.

“I… I’m sorry. It’ll be better, now. I’ll come more often.”

“Oh, Yau Si - please do not feel pressured to. I do not want you to do anything if you do not want to.”

“I want to. I’ve missed you, too.” He smiles at Eiji.

“I am very happy to hear that. Perhaps you could also see both Sing and me, one time. I think that it would be good for both of you.” Eiji smiles back, a little tentatively.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Maybe one day, though.”

“That is enough for me.”

His heart still feels heavy.

 

_january + february_

 

January and February are lonely.

Well, not quite. But just a little.

He thinks that maybe he’s lost track of time passing entirely, the days bleeding into each other like water spilled over ink filled pages. He doesn’t do much at all - he’s become the rich layabout that no one respects and everyone resents.

Not that he ever had much respect in the first place, and resentment is something he’s long gotten used to.

He’s lonely, still. He has Eiji, often, and Eiji makes him feel a little bit warmer, just a little bit less alone, with his soft eyes and mugs of tea, but Eiji is always just a bit too far away, on the other side of something he doesn’t dare approach. Always, always, he seems like he’s waiting for something.

It’s hard, sometimes, trying not to think about what it is he’s waiting for.

He has Sing, sometimes. Barely. Or, he’s there, but he feels even farther away than Eiji does, a world away and miles apart.

“Close the distance,” Eiji says when he mentions it in passing, but he thinks they both know it isn’t quite so easy.

“It is,” Eiji insists, and then Yut Lung thinks about it some more, and then he thinks that maybe it is, but maybe he’s too afraid that Sing doesn’t want him to.

Winter, he thinks, is terribly, terribly dull.

Everything - the colors, the feelings, everything is awfully disconnected.

The wine in his glass is deep, deep maroon, almost black. It smells like muted bitterness and it tastes like blood, and he can’t handle it any longer so he stops drinking the wine. He misses the pleasant buzz in his head, but he doesn’t miss the pungent aftertaste on his tongue. Perhaps white wine would be better, he thinks, but even that has lost its golden shine, its strange seduction, and all he has left to wallow in are feelings he can’t quite let go of.

The colors of autumn have long seeped away, leaving silhouettes of skeletal trees and snow that isn’t as bright as he remembers.

It’s dark, in winter.

→ ←

“Yau Si,” Eiji’s voice echoes through the halls.

Eiji has come to him this time, which doesn’t happen very often.

Yut Lung doesn’t really _let_ it happen very often, mostly because he prefers the coziness of Eiji and Sing’s apartment, and perhaps he does feel a little guilty, but he gets the sense that Eiji prefers it that way, too.

“In here,” Yut Lung calls from his bedroom, wrapped in his duvet.

When he finally walks in, Eiji frowns. “Yau Si, why don’t you turn on the lights?”

Yut Lung hums noncommittally and drags himself out of bed, duvet sliding off the bed and onto the floor. Eiji looks at it, brows furrowed, and then looks back up at Yut Lung.

“What are you doing here?” Yut Lung asks.

“Oh, Yau Si. You sound so terrible. Is it so hard to believe I am here because I have missed you?”

“Oh,” he says, “But I just saw you the other day.”

“You have not come in almost two weeks. I was not sure if you were okay.”

“I - Two weeks?” _Has it really been that long?_

“Yes, two weeks,” Eiji says impatiently. “Yau Si, _are_ you okay? You look very sick. Is it…” He trails off, and he doesn’t finish his sentence, but Yut Lung can hear the end of it anyway.

_Is it the flowers?_

It is, mostly. His lungs feel full, full, full, he feels like he’s always gasping for breath, feeling the air squeeze into his lungs, curl around the edges of the flowers, twist around the vines, wind around his heart, and he _hurts_. His skin looks desperately pale, no longer the delicate porcelain of 1992. It’s now transitioned into a sickly, waxen grey tint, and he’s become rather disinclined to look in the mirror nowadays, despite the fact that admiring himself was previously something he had quite enjoyed.

Now his reflection is something sallow and pathetic - he had, on occasion, been grateful for his slim figure, but now it’s crossed into something dangerous, where he can run his hands across his ribcage and feel his fingers slip into the bumps between his ribs, and the bruises Sing had left so long ago have faded to an unsavoury yellow. His hair has lost its shine, and now hangs lank and limp. His tiles and carpets are stained with blood spatters and scattered with dried flower petals he never quite got around to cleaning up, and his throat feels raw and clogged.

He’s getting closer, he thinks. He feels the sickness permeating his skin, feels it crawling through his body and inside his flesh, and he wonders just how much longer he has.

It looks like Eiji is starting to wonder, too.

“I think so,” Yut Lung says, and it’s only then that he realises his voice is rough, like he hasn’t spoken in days.

He hasn’t, he realises. Not in over two weeks, in fact.

“Yau Si, shall I bring you some soup? Is your throat hurting a lot?” Eiji is always so very sincere, Yut Lung has noticed, and it’s almost a little unsettling at times, because he isn’t terribly used to such genuine kindness, but perhaps he feels a little less frail because of it. It’s grounding, he thinks, in a way.

Perhaps he doesn’t need to wonder how Ash fell so hopelessly in love with him.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” He tries to keep his voice light, dismissive, so that Eiji will drop the subject. He hadn’t really thought it would work in the first place, but his voice sounds so cracked that even if there was a chance it would have, it’s certainly flown out of the window now.

Eiji frowns. “I do not think you are. And I think you know this. Yau Si… have you been thinking about telling Sing, maybe?”

“Sure. I’ve been thinking about it,” he lies. “But I don’t think I really want to.”

Eiji frowns a little more. “Why not? He could help you. He would be much better for you, I think.”

Yut Lung scoffs. “Better for what? What would really be the point in telling him? There’s nothing he can do. It’s not like I can force him to fall in love with me.” Quietly, he adds, “I don’t think I would want to, anyway.”

“You are right,” Eiji says. “You cannot force him to fall in love with you. But I think that, with time, he _can_ love you. Sing already loves you, but perhaps not in the way you love him.”

“Oh, please. He’s so hopelessly in love with you I don’t have a chance. And I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that I don’t really have a lot of time left.”

He feels so weak.

Eiji doesn’t look hurt, this time, but he does look terribly sad, and Yut Lung curses Eiji’s eyes, because they always make him feel plagued with guilt. “Please do not say that. There is still time - you can have as much time as you would like. Please, Yau Si - this is not the only way. I know you do not like it, but I know someone who could make you get cured. Please, Yau Si. Let me help you.”

Yut Lung sighs. “I’m sorry, Eiji. You - You’re very important to me and your opinion matters a lot to me and I care about you. I know you want me to get the surgery, and I really, really wish I could want to get it, too, because this could be resolved so, so easily. Fuck, Eiji. I’d be in perfect health. I wouldn’t even give a single fuck about Sing. But _god,_ Eiji. Everything just fucking hurts. I’m so tired. I’m tired of being in love with him but I just can’t bring myself to ever want to _stop_. And everything still hurt even before Sing. If anything, it hurts a little less. I just want it to stop. I just want everything to stop.” He can’t even look at Eiji anymore, too afraid of seeing the look on his face, and he feels so disgusting, his skin is crawling, he doesn’t want pity, he doesn’t want sympathy. He doesn’t want anything from Eiji.

There’s a pause, and then he hears Eiji shuffle over and perch on the arm of the loveseat, taking Yut Lung’s hands in his.

“I do not want you to die, Yau Si,” Eiji says, and Yut Lung realises, heart heavy, that his voice is thick and watery. “But I will stay with you until you do.”

And Yut Lung breaks.


	5. spring, 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH FUCK !!! OH SHIT OH FUCK IT'S BEEN THREE MONTHS !!!!!!! I AM SO SORRY !!!!! I RLLY SPENT A WHOLE THREE MONTHS WRITING 9K OF FLUFF HUH ,,,,,, ,, ,, ,, ,, , oh fuck fr though i'm so fucking sorry idk why it took so long for me to get this chapter out there but !! i rlly tried man i rlly did , , ,, ,,, i hope y'all enjoy i guess ,, ,, ,, 
> 
> ( also !! i think i might wrap this up in a chapter or two so !! the end approaches i Suppose [eye emoji] )
> 
> ( also also !!!!!!!! idk when another update is gonna come out but i PROMISE it'll take way less time than this one did !! i rlly missed writing angst so i've got a few other angsty things planned so !! even if this doesn't update i'll definitely continue writing in the meantime. anyway tysm for all of ur patience i apologise again )

_march_

 

Spring, they often say, is about new beginnings. A cold, frozen grey gives way to a bright green, and snowflakes give way to pollen spinning in the air. 

Beginnings, Yut Lung thinks bitterly, are very much overrated, but that might also be because he hasn’t gotten any, this spring. 

All he knows are endings. 

Everything is ending, it would seem, and really, when he thinks about it, his entire life has been a series of endings. The end of his innocence, the end of his mother’s life, the end of his trust, the end of his hope, the end of the tattered relationship he had clung so desperately to, and now -

The end of his life. Rather dramatic sounding, isn’t it? It isn’t, though.

And he can’t quite bring himself to care.

It hasn’t gotten much worse, he doesn’t think, because once you’re on the edge of a cliff, all that’s left to do it leap off of it, and he’s still toeing the edge, watching the pebbles he kicks loose tumble into the darkness. 

His lungs still feel fuller than full, and his skin is beginning to sag. The lines in his hands carve much deeper than they should, and the once delicate features of his face twist and pinch almost harshly, radiating sickness from every pore, and he can’t even look at himself without feeling bile and flower petals rise hot and cruel in his throat. 

Death is an awfully curious thing, once you come face to face with it, Yut Lung finds - rather enticing, and that’s terrifying in itself. Death also holds bitter, bitter regret; it’s painted across His face, along the grooves of His skeletal hands, hands that brush Yut Lung’s skin, leaving jagged lines that whisper a strange seduction. 

Death also has a peculiar way of making the victim understand. Regret forced down his throat, forced back up with something rotten and sickly. Regret for things lost, regret for actions that destroyed everything, everything, everything. 

He understands everything now. 

“Yue?” Sing’s voice is a distant crackle on the phone. 

“Hm?” Yut Lung had almost forgotten they were in the middle of a conversation.

“I was asking if you had any more information on the Vietnamese mafia. Listen, is everything okay?” They’re speaking on the phone. You can’t hear concern in someone’s voice over the phone. 

All his foolish daydreams have long slipped away. 

“I’m … fine. Don’t bother worrying about me.” Even his own voice sounds distant to him, untouchable. Like it’s fading away.

Exhaustion weighs heavy, lead laced in his bones and purple smudged deep and dark beneath his eyes. It’s so hard, being angry, and it’s so hard being so far away from Sing. He can feel the miles between them stretch and crack, he can feel whatever it is between them, frustration and bitterness and loss and unrequited love, he can feel it build and fester between them, and it smells rotten and the scent is so, so sickening. He wants the ground to open up so it can swallow the putrid, foul thing between them, but he’s long since learned that nothing ever goes the way he wants it to. 

“Are you really telling me not to worry about you? What the fuck, Yue? I haven’t been prying or pressing for shit because, because I know you’re trying to distance yourself from me, and I get that, holy shit, but, god. You can’t expect me not to worry about you. You’re so, so. _Fuck_.” Sing’s voice cracks, and so does Yut Lung’s rib cage. “You’re so fucking, _not okay_. What the fuck, Yue.” 

You can hear emotion over the phone, Yut Lung realises. Far too much of it, even. His rib cage is crumbling, shattering, and his heart feels so fucking exposed, and his lungs feel full, full, full, and everything just fucking _hurts._

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the phone, and stems wind around his windpipe and _squeeze._  

“What am I supposed to say?” Sing’s voice is all broken and beautiful, and Yut Lung wants to choke on it and taste blood on his tongue. 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for treating you the way I did. I’m sorry,” he says, the words dancing along silver metal, along sharp edges and slipping on the tears that slide down his cheeks. 

“Why?” Sing asks, and it’s too much, too much. “Why do I feel so far away from you?”

“Close the distance,” he whispers. _Eiji._

“You won’t let me,” Sing says, and he’s right, and Yut Lung wants to tear his heart out. 

“I know. I will, I will. I fucked up, Sing. I fucked up so badly.” Words are hard to choke out, words are hard to swallow, words are desperate and dangerous and so easily twisted, and he hates them. 

“It’s not too late,” Sing says, and Yut Lung lets out a choked sob, because it is, it’s far too late, and everything is in ruins around him.

“It is. But I’ll try to make it better with us. I’ll try. I … I care about you,” he says, and he’s swallowed poison, and it feels terribly fatal, but he’s dying anyway, so what does it matter?

“You do?” Sing asks, and there’s surprise in his voice, and that hurts. Fire on his skin and fire in his lungs and fire in his heart. It burns. 

“Far too much,” he says softly, and he hangs up.

After the _click,_ there is only silence.

 

→ ←

 

“Have you said something to Sing?” Eiji asks, two days later, soft words bouncing against the gentle light of the sunset. They’re in Eiji and Sing’s living room, surrounded by the warmth of tea mugs and fleece blankets together on a suede couch. 

Yut Lung’s breath gets caught somewhere between a thousand flower petals and a hundred thorns. “Why do you ask?”

Eiji sets his mug down. “I am worried about him. He says he is at work later, but I know he isn’t. I know he isn’t when he comes home and he smells like too much wine.”

It’s funny, Yut Lung thinks, because it used to be him, the one that would soak his miseries in a crystal glass, but now it’s Sing. Sing, who is in love with man still holding onto fragments of memories, Sing, who is honorable and good, Sing, who can’t ever seem to find the words to express how he feels. 

And now Yut Lung just soaks his miseries in a toilet bowl full of flower petals, soaks it in skin that’s barely thick enough to hold the blood in his body. Yut Lung, whose tongue always tastes of old perfume and copper, who’s in love with a man who never quite seems to know what he wants, whose heart is so full of tears never shed, Yut Lung, who is desperately tired of existing. 

Misery, he finds, weighs awfully heavy.

“We had a conversation,” is all Yut Lung says, and Eiji gives him a look.

“Yes, I knew this already. Are you going to tell me what it was about?” Eiji asks. 

Yut Lung pauses. “I … I don’t really know how to explain it. I told him I … ” Yut Lung sucks in a breath. “I told him I was sorry. And that I, and that I cared about him.” 

The features on Eiji’s face melt into something gentle. It makes Yut Lung feel less afraid. 

“Oh, Yau Si. I am so proud of you. And what did he say?” Eiji’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper, full of sincerity. 

Yut Lung grimaces. “I, um. I don’t know. I hung up on him.” 

For a moment, Eiji is quiet. Yut Lung avoids his gaze.

“You really … you really are just a child. You are twenty two, Yau Si. And yet you continue to act half your age,” Yut Lung sees Eiji’s jaw muscle working. “You two really are foolish. Foolish, foolish children.”

Yut Lung feels tears burn hot beneath his eyelids. 

“No,” Eiji says angrily, and this startles him. Eiji doesn’t get angry. “Do not cry. Learn to deal with your emotions like an adult. This is why you are having so many problems. This is why you look like this. This is why you cannot feel anything but pity for yourself and horrible love. This is why you are coughing up flowers and this is why you are so very miserable. That is it. Stop your crying. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Talk to him, face to face, and this time you do not walk away.” 

Eiji is breathing heavily by the end of his tirade, and Yut Lung feels ripped open, his muscles torn and his heart trembling in the shards of his shattered ribcage. Eiji’s voice is no longer the warm summer breeze he’s used to - no, it’s vicious, and it’s cold, hail peeling his skin away and ice burning his organs. 

He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say to that?

Nothing, it would seem. 

So it’s just as well Sing chooses to stumble into the apartment now, shirt half unbuttoned and hair mussed. ( _By whom?_ Yut Lung wonders, skin stinging, but he chooses to remain quiet for the time being.) He looks like he smells like booze. 

Yut Lung stands up, not entirely sure why he’s doing so, but he notices that Eiji does the same, only to slip away to some faraway room in the apartment. Yut Lung isn’t quite sure how he feels about this - the absence of Eiji almost feels like the absence of any semblance of control, and he feels a special kind of fear at that thought - control is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. 

Sing takes a few drunken steps closer to Yut Lung, and they’re close, but not very - just a few feet away from madness. 

Yut Lung was right, Sing smells like wine and he looks like despondency. Yut Lung wants to touch him, hold him, tell him everything will be okay, but he’s afraid he’ll collapse if he does, crumble to dust as his fingers press into the skin of Sing’s back, fall apart as he inhales the acrid scent of Sing’s collared shirt. 

Sing stumbles closer, close enough to be able to support himself on the other side of the couch, and Yut Lung’s blood starts to sing, a familiar ecstasy soaring in his veins. 

“Yue,” Sing whispers, or tries to. It comes out as a sort of croak, but it tugs on Yut Lung’s heartstrings anyway. 

“Yeah?” Yut Lung asks, and he hates how vulnerable he sounds, but Sing is probably too drunk to notice, anyway.

“What’d you … What’d you mean when you said, when you said you, when you said you cared ‘bout me?” Sing blinks drowsily, but despite the fact that he is completely and utterly shitfaced, he manages to widen his eyes in a way that makes him look terribly earnest. 

 _Is this how he felt when he dealt with me all those years?_  

Yut Lung swallows. “Exactly what I said. I care about you.” 

“But … but how much do you care ‘bout me? Like, jus’ a lil bit? Enough to keep, to keep on calling me and seeing me so you won’ hurt my feelings? ‘Cause I’m an _adult_ , Yue, you don’ have to do that jus’ to, um. Not hurt my feelings. So I mean, you can, you can stop that. If you wanted. If you wanted to.” 

“What?” Yut Lung asks, astonished. “No, what are you talking about?”

“When you said, when you said you cared ‘bout me, how much d’you mean? How, how much d’you care ‘bout me?” There’s almost something desperate in Sing’s voice, and it’s strange to hear, because Yut Lung doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sing sound like this before. 

“Far too much,” Yut Lung echoes softly. 

Sing leans close, and it’s cutting his veins open, and he can feel the ecstasy spill in his blood and spread through his body. 

“Enough to let me kiss you?” Sing asks, and it’s the clearest sentence that’s left his mouth since he arrived, and Yut Lung is this close to falling apart.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

Sing leans closer. Yut Lung can feel his breath caress his cheeks. It smells like red wine. 

“Please?” Sing asks, voice low, and Yut Lung crumbles.

“Yes,” he says, and suddenly Sing’s hands are cupped around his face, clumsy but perhaps a little delicate, like he’s trying not to break it, and their lips meet in an uncoordinated mesh of lips, teeth, and tongue. 

Sing tastes like vermouth.

Yut Lung has always liked vermouth. It tastes well enough and it gets him drunk quickly, and that was usually the goal when he drank a glass of wine. And now Sing is kissing him, and he’s drunk, and he tastes like vermouth, like the same wine Sing would always see Yut Lung drinking on lonely nights and sad nights and angry nights, which was almost every night.

Sing tastes like vermouth, and Yut Lung is drunk on the knowledge and drunk on the way Sing’s tongue flickers across his teeth and tangles with his own tongue, and his heart has exploded in a pink-red mess across his ribcage. There are stems crushing his windpipe and his lungs are full of flowers, but for the first time in a long time, he can’t quite bring himself to care, because he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to kiss Sing, to feel his fingers leave imprints on the nape of Sing’s neck, to feel their lips meet in a hot, desperate slide, to feel blood coursing through his body. 

Yut Lung pushes Sing away. 

Sing blinks, dazed. “Wh - ”

“You’re drunk,” Yut Lung says.

“Yeah.” 

“How much do _you_ care about _me_ , Sing?” Yut Lung asks, and he’s almost afraid to hear the answer. 

“I don’t … I don’t know,” Sing says miserably.

“Then come back to me when you do,” Yut Lung says, and then he leaves.

The drive home is a lonely one. 

 

_april_

 

He can hardly breathe anymore. Each breath he takes rattles his bones and leaves him worn out, like every time he takes a breath his organs collapse just a little bit more, his muscles thinning and his skin thinning and his hair thinning. 

Vanity, he’s finding, is a luxury he can no longer afford. 

These past few months have been awfully strange, watching himself decompose. He feels it, rippling beneath his skin, curling deadly and dark in his lungs, but he can see it, too. 

Yut Lung has always been called vain, narcissistic, self obsessed - and who was he to deny the claims? He had found no fault in taking pride in his own beauty, using it to his advantage. He remembers watching his silken hair be pulled through blood-stained fingers, he remembers seeing it fanned delicately around cheap linen sheets and bunched in the fat fists of filthy men with far too much money and far too much power. 

He remembers, long ago, burying his face in his mother’s neck, feeling her hair cascade across his cheeks. Her hair smelled like lavender and her skin smelled like honey. 

He remembers Sing, who would curl his hair around his fingers, weaving it through as they laid sprawled together underneath his duvet, sweat clinging to their skin. He remembers the way Sing would sometimes say nothing at all, he would just wrap his arms around Yut Lung’s waist and inhale the scent of his hair, and these are moments Yut Lung likes to keep wrapped up tightly beneath layers of cellophane so he doesn’t float away with hopelessness of it all.

Sometimes, when the sky would teeter on the edge of the overwhelming blackness of the night and the gentle colors of dawn, he’d twist midnight locks of his hair through his fingers, a dark silhouette of delicate fingers against the fading night, and pretend it was Sing. 

It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but the bleached out moments of rapture are worth it, a pale imitation of elation wrapped around his skin. 

He can’t, anymore. Sometimes he catches himself doing it without thinking, and the horror that settles in his lungs when he sees his hair fall from his fingers and onto the floor is enough deterrent for the next few days, at least. 

He sees his hair everywhere, now, deadly serpents slithering across his carpets and winding around the tiles in his kitchen and creating an ocean of limp, dull black hairs on his bed. 

He’d hung sheets on his mirror two weeks ago. He could no longer look at his own reflection without spilling flower petals and vomit on the floor, dashed with the salinity of his tears. 

He’s tired of crying. It feels like there might be salt crystals clinging to his skin. 

Oblivion is terribly tempting.

 

→ ←

 

There is a knock on Yut Lung’s door a week after the night in his and Eiji’s apartment. 

Yut Lung doesn’t bother getting up. He leaves his door unlocked at all times, so that he doesn’t have to feel his bones start to crumble when he needs to open the door for Eiji.

He hears the door click and swing open. He stays in his bedroom. 

When Sing appears at the threshold, he says nothing. 

“Hey,” Sing says, and his voice is soft and careful, like Yut Lung might break if he raises his voice. 

It’s entirely plausible.

“Have you figured it out yet?” Yut Lung asks, and his voice sounds strained, edges cracking. It hurts to speak. 

Sing is quiet for a moment. “Almost. Not yet, though.” 

Yut Lung’s heart clenches. “Then why are you here?” 

Sing pauses. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

Yut Lung is startled by the question. It doesn’t come with the anger he’d expected. Just a strange, desperate curiosity he isn’t quite ready for.

He manages a dry laugh. His throat rips open. “Well, that’s not a very polite way to go about it, is it?” 

Sing’s expression turns angry. “I thought we were past politeness.” 

“Oh, that’s been made abundantly clear. What exactly do you want from me, Sing?” He can’t help the acidity that creeps into his tone. 

Sing’s face crumples. “What happened to you, Yue?” He sounds miserable, and despair pools in Yut Lung’s stomach. 

Yut Lung swallows. “What are you referring to? Is it the fact that my voice sounds like I’ve spent the last three months gargling gravel? Is it the fact that I haven’t left my house in almost a month? Is it the fact that I look like a fucking corpse? Because I’m not sure how telling you what the fuck my problem is would solve anything.” He’s being far more hostile than he needs to be, he knows he is, but he is so, so fucking fed up with, with everything. His stomach churns, and he feels flowers choking him, choking him. 

Sing looks achingly hopeless. “Everything. I, fuck. Everything. Tell me what’s wrong, please. I can fix it. I can help you. Please, just tell me.” Desperation colors his voice a sickening shade of green, and Yut Lung wants to throw up. He thinks he might. 

“You know what? You’re right. You _can_ help me. But at the same time, you really can’t. And that … ” A wave of nausea rolls through him. “And that’s just fine with me. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.” And with that, he leans over his bed, over the trash can that sits beside it, and heaves. 

Flower petals spill out of his mouth, thorns scraping the skin of his cheek and leaves tingeing his tongue green. Sweat beads on his forehead and tears form in the corner of his eyes as he keeps heaving, pools of a pink-viridescent mess in his trash can, and hazily, he notices Sing climbing on top of his bed to hold his hair back. He feels a little grateful, he thinks, but it’s undermined by the hot, oppressive shame he feels burning underneath his skin. 

As the last foul stream slides off his tongue, he uses the remains of his strength to haul himself off of his bed and stumble to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him, leaving Sing standing in his bedroom alone. He rinses his mouth out with water, and then with mouthwash, despising the mixture of the sweet perfume and acrid taste of bile in his mouth, and then splashes his face with water. He looks up at the mirror, and instead of being met with his reflection, he’s met with a white sheet.

He inhales shakily. He breathes for a moment. It’s hard, but easier now that some of the flowers have been poured out of his lungs. 

When he re-enters the bedroom, he finds Sing standing with a handful of his hair in his right hand, staring at the trash can. 

The silence in the room chokes them.

“What the fuck, Yue?” Sing’s voice sounds shattered. A glass chandelier crashed on marble tiles. Bulbs blown out, crystal that could cut the soles of your feet. It makes Yut Lung bleed. 

He says nothing. 

“I’m not, I’m not … ” Sing’s voice cracks. He inhales sharply. “I’m not fucking stupid. I know what the fuck this is.” 

Yut Lung’s heart starts to shake, a dangerous clattering in his ribcage. He feels his eyes grow hot.

Sing’s hands are balled in fists, one clutching his hair and one clutching nothing but open air. His hands are trembling. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sing asks, his voice swaying terribly close to brokenness, and Yut Lung watches his limp hairs dance along the fraught air. 

“What good would it have done?” Yut Lung whispers, his voice tangled with emotion. “How am I supposed to force you to love me?”

Sing swallows, and his whole body is shaking. Yut Lung jolts when he realises there are tears rolling down Sing’s face, and when he lifts a hand to his own, his fingers come away wet. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. You could have told me. I don’t know, I don’t know. What the fuck, Yue?” The words spill desperately out of Sing’s mouth, laced with tears. “I could have done something, anything. Why did you just assume I didn’t care about you?” 

A choked sob escapes Yut Lung, and he covers his mouth. Why did he? Why did he, why did he? 

“How can you love me?” Sing asks. “How can you love me when you can’t even give a single fuck about yourself?” A tear rolls over Sing’s trembling lips, and Yut Lung wants to slice open his lungs, watch the flower petals and leaves spill out in a horrible, heart-aching mess. 

How, how, how?

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t even want to stop. I don’t want to stop loving you, Sing. What the hell is wrong with me, Sing? What the hell is wrong with me? I’d rather die like this than stop. What the hell is wrong with me?” Yut Lung wraps his arms around himself, and he thinks that maybe it’s to keep himself from falling apart.

“So much,” Sing says, and that fucking _hurts_ , it hurts more than suffocating stems and more than his withering beauty and more than thorns in his throat and tears on his face. 

“Please don’t leave me,” Yut Lung begs, and he’s sobbing, and the tears burn like cobalt flames, and he holds himself, he holds himself. 

“I can’t bring myself to leave you anymore,” Sing says, a whisper woven with pain, and Yut Lung feels strong arms curl around him. They’re trembling, but they’re enough, they’re more than enough. 

“Don’t go,” Yut Lung says again. 

“I won’t,” Sing whispers into his hair, and Yut Lung feels tears slide onto his scalp and tears soak through Sing’s shirt. 

Sing doesn’t go. 


	6. spring, part ii and summer, 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH HOLY FUCK I HAD. NO IDEA IT HAD BEEN LIKE. THREE MONTHS SINCE I LAST UPDATED BUT WHEN I TELL U I SCREAMED WHEN I SAW ,,,,,, IM SO FUCKING SORRY TO ANYONE WHOS BEEN WAITING FOR ANOTHER CHAPTER IM SO SO SORRY GENUINELY!!!!!!! it's finally here though after literally an eternity and yes ! she's the last one !!!! so i really hope u enjoy :))))))

_may_

 

Yut Lung wakes up warm. 

It’s a change. He’s never warm, anymore. But he is now. 

His duvet isn’t there anymore, or not the one he normally uses. The feeling of silk is no longer on his skin - now it’s just a cotton blanket, a strangely comforting weight. Sunlight streams in from his window, and he watches dust motes dance in the light for a moment before he realises Sing is quietly dozing in an armchair in the corner of the room. 

 _He stayed,_ Yut Lung marvels. _Why?_

Sing had done some cleaning, it seems. He’s sure the curtains had been closed before, and his carpets are no longer strewn with dried flower petals and flecks of blood. The air feels lighter. 

There’s still a sheet on his mirror.

Yut Lung swallows. His throat feels raw and his tongue tastes like sawdust and iron. It feels heavy. _Water,_ he thinks. He needs water. 

“Sing,” he tries to say. It’s nothing but a whisper. 

“Sing,” he tries to say again, louder this time. It rips apart his throat and his lungs feel like collapsing. He starts to choke, and he feels tears forming in the corners of his eyes. It hurts. It hurts, and he feels his full, full lungs compress, and he feels vines twist in his throat, and he feels a hand on his back. 

“Yue. Yue. Oh my god. You’re awake. Oh my god, fuck. Fuck. Fuck! You’re choking. Fuck!” The hand thumps his back once, twice, three times, and a stream of crimson petals flows past his lips and into the trash can next to his bed. 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, okay. Uh. I’m gonna get you water. Fuck. I’ll be right back.” 

Yut Lung hears footsteps, pounding down the hall and down the stairs, and he soaks in self loathing. 

He hates that Sing can see him like this. Sagging, sickly skin, rapidly thinning hair, barely able to move, barely able to speak. He can’t even bring himself to look in the mirror.

Pathetic.

Sing rushes back into the room holding a glass of water. Gently, he presses the rim to Yut Lung’s lips, which part slightly, and tilts the glass. 

A part of Yut Lung despairs at how helpless he is, unable to drink a glass of water on his own, but it’s overshadowed by the feeling of the water on his tongue, trickling down his throat. It tastes wonderfully sweet, and he swallows it down quickly.

As he lets the last drops of water sink into his lips, Sing pulls the glass away and places it on his dresser. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. 

Yut Lung thinks for a moment. “I’m not sure. Physically, you mean? I’ve never been better,” he says dryly. 

A smile flickers across Sing’s face. “Are you this hilarious all the time?” 

“Of course I am. If you wanted an actual answer, however, I’m actually feeling rather awful. I thought you’d be able to figure that out on your own, though.” His voice sounds hoarse, and his attempt to keep his tone somewhat light falls unbelievably flat. 

“Yeah, I did,” Sing says quietly. “But forgive me for being a little concerned after you woke up for the first time in almost two days.” 

Yut Lung sucks in a breath. “Excuse me, what? Two days?”

Sing grimaces. “Believe me, it wasn’t a picnic. You just kind of passed out after we talked and. Did not wake up. I didn’t know what to do. I called Eiji and he brought soup. There’s still some in the fridge, if you want any - I can just heat it up for you. But, uh, anyway. He said you wouldn’t want to be brought to the hospital, but also I felt kind of bad just leaving you in your bed. No offense, but your room looked kinda gross. Eiji and I cleaned up a bit. I threw away your sheets and your duvet and I had to do some emergency cleaning on the carpet. I’m sorry about the duvet, by the way, but it kind of looked like it was reaching the end of its life - ”

“Are you still in love with him?” Yut Lung blurts, interrupting Sing.

Sing blinks, startled. “What?” He cringes.

“What? I, what? Why are you, I … ” Sing stutters. 

“Listen, it’s fine. Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter,” Yut Lung says, and his stomach feels like it’s full of concrete.

Sing is quiet. He looks hurt.

“You know that’s a lie. It is important.” Sing’s voice is soft, but it still feels broken. He breathes in deep. “I don’t know anymore. I’m really confused right now, Yue. It’s just really hard to be in love.” 

Yut Lung laughs bitterly. “Don’t I know it.”

Sing winces. “It’s really hard being in love with Eiji. But at the same time it isn’t. He’s so easy to love, Yue, but it hurts a lot. He’s so in love with Ash. It hurts. It hurts to watch Eiji get so lost in memories of him. Even if I was never in love with him, it would hurt. But I was. Am. I don’t know anymore. I’m just confused.” Sing’s face twists, it twists and twists and twists, it twists into green eyes and pale skin, it twists into lost eyes and a shattered soul, and it twists and it twists and it _burns_.

“And then, I … I don’t really know what happened. I don’t really know when. But I think at some point I started to look at you differently, too.”

Yut Lung heart gets caught in his throat. It beats red and wild, and he's finding it hard to breathe.

“It’s strange, sort of. I feel so stuck in this in between where Eiji still makes me hurt but I think I’m falling for you, and it all just hurts. I don’t know. I feel so bad complaining, because I know you have it so much worse, but that’s how I feel.” 

Yut Lung’s bones are trembling, frail skin shivering like autumn leaves clinging desperately to thin branches. 

“Do you mean it?” Yut Lung asks, and he can hear the fear in his voice, but he’s long past caring. “Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me the truth. Please.” 

“Why would I lie to you? You know I wouldn’t do that. You know I wouldn’t.” He’s right, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. 

“What am I supposed to say, then?” 

“Fair’s fair, isn’t it? I’ve poured my heart out to you. Isn’t it your turn now?” 

Yut Lung isn’t really sure how much heart left he has to pour out.

“Why should I? You already know how I feel.” Petulance creeps into his tone, and he hates how much he sounds like a child. 

Sing smiles small and soft, and he says, “It’s always nice to have verbal confirmation.”

Yut Lung scowls, but Sing only smiles wider. He pauses for a breath, or two, or three, and he feels his chest bubble with something burning and viscous, like a volcano had erupted somewhere in his ribcage. His lungs start to blacken, and he wonders if the petals are being swallowed by the thick magma that runs through the gaps of his ribs. 

He breathes in again.

“I love you. Desperately, madly, hopelessly. Take your pick. I want to do everything with you. I want to swim in lakes in the middle of the night with you, I want to drink coffee in a quiet café with you, I want to hold your hand and think “aren’t I awfully lucky to be able to call him mine?” I want to kiss you until you run out of breath, I want you to hold me just because you can and you want to, and I want you to look at me the way you looked at Eiji. I want you to _want_ me, and I want you to think of me as something you never want to give up, not ever. I want all of it. I want to pick flowers for you and twist them into your hair. I want you to love me because you want to, not because you have to. I want everything.” He breathes out. 

His feelings have melted at the bottom of his stomach to form a strange, warm sort of mush. A peculiar concoction of heartache and love, disease and terror, weakness and something saccharine. It’s pungent and bitter, bursting with acrid flavor and overwhelming sweetness.

It’s silent for a minute, and Yut Lung’s heart is pounding wildly. “How was that for pouring out my heart?” 

“Perfect,” Sing says breathlessly, and then he kisses him. 

They’ve kissed before, but this feels different. It feels like everything he asked for, everything he wanted - it feels like swimming in a lake in the middle of the night, it feels like coffee in a quiet café, it feels like holding his hand and calling him his, it feels like being wanted and it feels like flowers in Sing’s hair and it feels like a kiss for the sake of it. For the sake of being close. For the sake of wanting to kiss. 

For them. 

 

_june_

 

Things aren’t okay. Not quite. Things are better, perhaps - he’d like them to be, at least. 

Yut Lung thinks they are. Things are better. 

He likes this, a little bit - this indefinable in between, an odd sort of purgatory. Somewhere dancing between fatally in love and simply _in love_. He feels petals lining his lungs, soft and fluttering beneath the tissue as he breathes in and out, in and out. He can still taste traces of floral perfume in the back of his throat, and he can still see flecks of red when he coughs into tissues, but the vines around his heart have loosened, and he can breathe without thinking about it. 

He loves more easily. That’s the most noticeable difference - the fact that loving Sing is no longer a burden. Loving Sing is no longer a bleeding heart, no longer brimming lungs, no longer tired eyes and a restless mind. 

His heart is still slightly bruised, of course - Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all, and it’s hard to completely recover from a decade of heartbreak within a few weeks. 

Sing has been terribly kind, more kind than he has ever deserved, and so has Eiji. He worries, still, and his organs twist and writhe inside his body when he sees Sing’s glance linger on Eiji for just a little too long, but he tries to remember that if Sing was still so desperately in love with Eiji, Yut Lung would likely be slightly worse off. He isn’t, though, and he smiles when Sing smiles and he smiles when Eiji makes him tea, even though he always puts honey in it. 

(Secretly, he rather likes the honey. He doesn’t like how bitter the tea is without it, but his brothers had always had their coffee black and their tea without milk or honey. He’s past that now, he thinks.) 

Yut Lung is rarely in his own apartment anymore - he sleeps on Eiji and Sing’s couch a lot, because memories can be quite overwhelming, and sometimes on lonelier nights he crawls in Sing’s bed. He tries not to sleep there too often, because Sing probably wants his own space, and he doesn’t really want to force himself to be anywhere he isn’t wanted.

Something lukewarm simmers between Yut Lung and Eiji, and he feels like it may come to a boil soon - their relationship is odd but not quite awkward, full of warmth, but something blurred is lining the edges. 

Too much is being swept under the rug, and Yut Lung thinks that soon they’ll have to throw the whole rug away.

Eiji has started to take photographs again. He had stopped, for a long, long time after Ash’s death, but now, he sees Eiji on the balcony at dawn, camera positioned carefully on a tripod, and he sees Eiji in the city, on busy streets, under red green yellow traffic lights, and he looks lighter, and he looks like he’s surviving. He looks like things are getting better.  

Yut Lung feels glossy, shining underneath stage lights, sparkling slightly as the curtain closes slowly, slowly. The act is over, and when the curtain rises again, he’ll twinkle beneath yellow lights.

And maybe he’ll smile again.

This time he’ll love again, differently. Softly, tenderly. Love like his soul is tinged pink, love like the clouds are stained tangerine. 

This time he’ll be loved back. 

 

_july_

 

In July, Yut Lung moves back into his apartment. He’d almost bought a new one, partly as some sort of symbol of a new beginning, and partly because he’d thought that there were too many memories attached to the one he has now. 

He’d realised, though, that memories are just that - remnants of the past, and he can drown in them if he’d like, but no one is holding his head underwater. Memories can be burned and torn apart, memories can be rapture revisited and molded to his will, but he doesn’t have to let them suffocate him. He can control this, he thinks, at least a bit better than the wine-colored petals and viridescent vines. 

And so, after a month, he goes back to his apartment. It smells sort of stale, and there’s a layer of dust coating his tabletops and furniture, but it’s okay - he enlists Eiji and Sing to help, and they come armed with bottles of windex and bleach, a mop, a vacuum, and an armful of rags. A few hours later, Yut Lung’s windows and tabletops are sparkling, carpets bleached of bloodstains and tiles and wooden floors glistening, smelling clinical but citrus-fresh. 

They look a mess, sticky and ripe with sweat, their shirts cling to their skin, and Yut Lung’s hair cascades not-so-gracefully from the makeshift bun he’d piled high on his head. Yut Lung is okay, though, feeling proud of how bright the floors look with his ceiling lights sparkling above. Sing and Eiji look sweaty and exhausted, and he ushers them outside. 

“Thank you - no, really, I would have pitched myself out of the window if it wasn’t for your help. Go home and take a shower, both of you,” Yut Lung says, skin warm. 

“Are you kicking us out? After all we’ve done for you? At least let us enjoy the labor of our love for a little while,” Sing teases. 

“Yes, I am. I love you both dearly, but you stink to high heaven and I’ve been wanting to take a bubble bath all day,” Yut Lung says, and he opens the front door. “Go on now - thank you both again. Give me a call soon.” 

“Of course, darling,” Sing says mockingly, but his smile is soft and bright. 

“I hope you are having a good bubble bath! Please come visit soon, Yau Si!” Eiji calls as Yut Lung pushes Sing out of the door (“Ow, fuck! I was just about to leave!”).

“Of course. Bye bye.” The door shuts with a slam - it always closes too loudly.

When he falls asleep that night, he doesn’t dream. 

 

→ ←

 

Yut Lung still isn’t one for beaches, or so he says.

They’re back on the same pebble beach from last year, and the wind is cool and makes the water churn around him. He’s migrated from the picnic bench to being chin deep in the water, and there’s salt on his lips and hair in his mouth, sun on skin that’s still so terribly pale, but he’s treading, treading, keeping his head above the water, and Eiji is here, just a few feet away, and things could be worse. 

He can see Sing on the shore, building a lopsided sand castle, and when he looks for a while, the sun feels a little softer on his face. 

There’s water, space, and unspoken words between him and Eiji, and he thinks that the words have remained unspoken for too long, and they’re starting to wither beneath the burning sun, rotting dry like weeks-old fruit. 

“I’m sorry,” Yut Lung says, looking at Eiji, and he licks drops of water off of his lips. It’s salty and burns in his throat. He holds his gaze.

Eiji smiles sort of small. “Why are you sorry?” he asks, not like he really can’t figure it out, but like he wants to hear it said. 

It’s better that way, isn’t it? He thinks that they’ve all probably had enough miscommunication to last a lifetime.

Yut Lung thinks for a moment. “I’m sorry for underestimating how much I mean to you. I’m sorry for underestimating the worth of my own life. I’m sorry you had to get involved in something you wanted nothing to do with.” 

Melancholy swims in Eiji’s eyes, undulating along his irises. “You could not have helped the last one,” he says. 

“I know. It was a problem on its own, anyway. They didn’t really have anything to do with each other until the flowers. And that was all me - so yeah, it was, sort of. It was my fault.”

“Why are you always blaming yourself and not thinking about others? You did not force Sing to love me. You did not force yourself to love Sing. It is hard to know what you want, Yau Si, but I was scared because there was a moment when suddenly I realised that the one thing you wanted the most was to stop living. And I think that even though this happened because of Sing, Sing did not really have very much to do with it. You loved him, you still love him, but you hated yourself more. And that was very much hurtful to me, because I love you. And I never want someone I love to be unhappy. But you were, and Sing was, and I was. I love Ash, and Ash is not here anymore. Sing loved me, more than he should, but he only loved a shadow. Shadows cannot love the living. And you loved Sing, and you never wanted to live, anyway. It was just easy for you to say that it was love you were tired of, rather than life.” Eiji’s voice is raw and gentle, and it tears him apart. 

Yut Lung’s lips are salty and blue, warmed slightly with silent teardrops. He treads the water and his limbs feel heavy. “I love you, too. And I wish… I wish things could work out for you, too. I wish he was still here. For you. I wish…” 

“Enough wishing. I spent a very long time wishing, too, and wishing does not often lead you anywhere you would really like to be. Wishing is not enough, and it will never be enough. Sometimes it is better not to wish at all. Things will always be as they are, so even if I wish a thousand times on a thousand stars, even if I beg the moon, the sky, the sun, even if I plead with Death for a million years, he will never be given back to me. I can never have him again. Never. Never. Never…” 

When Eiji starts to cry, Yut Lung takes his hands and leads him back to shore. His feet touch the sand and he holds Eiji, and they cry softly together. 

He feels arms around him, around them, and it’s Sing, gentle, kind Sing, and he feels contained. His tears don’t stray further than Sing’s soft skin and the ocean’s delicate waves, and he feels warm, even though the water is cold and his arms and chest are bare. 

The sky is blue and the water is bluer, and Yut Lung’s lips turn pink again. 

He’s getting there.

 

_august_

 

At 6:40pm, Sing knocks on his door. Yut Lung pauses, debating whether to open it or not, and then makes up his mind. 

He twists the handle and pulls the door open a crack, calling, “Sing, close your eyes! Close them! Don’t peek!” 

He pulls it open wider, and Sing dutifully has one hand covering his eyes and one hand gripping a bouquet of bright sunflowers. Yut Lung can’t help the bright grin that spreads across his face at the sight of them, but he gathers himself quickly and races behind a wall a few meters away from the entrance. 

“Okay, you can open them now!” 

He hears Sing shuffling around for a few seconds. “Are you gonna come out?” Sing asks.

“Yeah, one second.” He peeks out from behind the wall. 

Sing puts his hand over his mouth. “Oh wow … who’s this stunner in my apartment? I’ve never seen him before,” he teases. 

Yut Lung rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now, and there’s really nothing that can be done about that. He steps out from behind the wall and gives a small twirl. 

“How about a rating out of ten?” he asks.

He knows damn well he’s dressed far past the nines - crisply cut, tailored and bespoke champagne blazer and matching pants, a coffee colored bowtie and sleek, ebony hair dusting his shoulders. He’d gotten it cut a few weeks ago, and now instead of it cascading past his waist, it’s now cut into a fashionable bob. It was about time, he thinks - the ends were split and worn, and it seemed that no product could have saved the damage that had been dealt after weeks of barely eating and drinking. The few patches of hair that were missing are now slowly growing back, and his hair is thick enough to hide them, anyway. 

“I think the scale is a little too restrictive,” Sing says, grinning.

“Isn’t it?” Yut Lung walks towards Sing and leans against the wall. “Don’t you want to just ditch the restaurant and ravish me?” 

“I’m a little tempted,” Sing says, and Yut Lung snickers. “But it was really hard to get this reservation. And it’s gonna be super romantic. Look, I brought you flowers and everything.” He holds out the bouquet of sunflowers. 

“And they look gorgeous,” he says, taking the flowers and wondering if the yellow goes well with his suit. “Not as gorgeous as you, though,” he says with a wink. 

“Please. You’re gonna make me blush,” Sing teases, but there’s a dusty pink on his cheeks, and something bubbles in Yut Lung’s chest. It’s true, though, Sing looks absolutely stunning, with a white blazer and navy blue shirt, fitted black pants and a matching black bowtie. His hair is slicked back and the bright grin on his face is making it really difficult for Yut Lung to stop himself from reaching out and kissing him. 

“I really want to kiss you,” Yut Lung says.

Sing’s eyes go a little wide. “Why don’t you?”

“I just put my makeup on, like, half an hour ago,” he pouts. 

Sing takes a step forward and reaches out, anyway. “Sing - wait, Sing, please don’t ruin my foundation - ”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” Sing says solemnly, and wraps his arms around his waist. Yut Lung isn’t so sure, but he’s starting to think that he doesn’t really care all that much. 

When Sing kisses him, it’s soft and warm, and Sing smells sort of spicy, like cinnamon and anise, and Yut Lung wants to swallow him, keep him beneath his skin and feel his limbs twist into his arteries, and he holds him close until he’s breathless, lungs empty save for the single petal that flutters along pulsing tissue. 

For a moment, they breathe the same air, heat warming their lips, their cheeks. 

“I’m in love with you,” Sing says.

Yut Lung sucks in a breath. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Sing says, looking straight into his eyes, and Yut Lung thinks that Sing’s eyes are quite lovely, actually - flecks of amber in a mocha sea, and he’s truly, truly in love, isn’t he?

But for the first time, it’s okay. He’s in love, and he’s okay. 

“Yeah,” he echoes faintly, almost in disbelief. His bones ache and his chest hurts but it’s good, so good, he feels weightless, untethered. He breathes in, out. 

“I hate to cut this short, but aren’t we going to be late for our reservation?” Yut Lung asks, trying to keep himself under control. 

Sing looks at him, eyes bright and burning. “So what?”

He laughs. “Christ - what a change in attitude! Come on, Sing. I don’t want to ruin your ‘super romantic’ plans, and I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.”

Sing sighs dramatically, pouting. “Oh, alright then. I guess we can be super in love at the restaurant, too.”

Yut Lung smiles. “Damn right. Let’s get a move on, darling.” 

They do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to all who stuck with me through this fic despite the terribly sporadic updates :-) i truly love each and every one of you, and anyone who's ever left a comment or a kudo i promise you it has absolutely made my day :') i'm not really feeling too confident about this ending but i really hope it worked for you guys and that you enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed writing it ! (this last chapter was such a struggle but i'm really just happy to be finished!!) 
> 
> again, i'm sorry for being so slow updating, but i promise i'll be quicker writing now ! i've got a lot of new ideas and i'm really excited to start working on them, and i've got a little something on the way for the bf gift exchange, so you can look forward to that :) 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are such a blessing (u get a gold star and a phat hug from me if u leave a comment <3) and feel free to talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/grey_x_green) or [tumblr](https://grey-x-green.tumblr.com/)!!


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